;x 


c. 


.  ^  s;  /?*  <o. 


DAYS  AFIELD 


ON 


STATEN  ISLAND 


BY 

WILLIAM  T.  DAVIS 


Copyright,  1892, 
By  WILLIAM  T.  DAVIS. 


PREFACE 


C  F 1  FEW  of  the  pages  that  compose  this  volume  ap- 
r"A  peared  in  that  short  lived  periodical,  The  Staten 
-L  -*-  Island  Magazine,  but  for  the  greater  part  they  are 
records  of  rambles  made  during  the  past  several  years. 
Rambles  that  were  made  sometimes  with  Charles  W. 
Leng,  when  I  assisted  in  that  happily  never-to-be-ended 
task  of  discovering  all  the  kinds  of  beetles  that  inhabit  the 
Island,  that  count  in  their  legions  so  many  hundred 
species;  or  with  Louis  P.  Gratacap,  when  we  caused  the 
hours  to  be  memorable  to  ourselves  by  our  enthusiastic  joy 
in  simply  wandering  afield.  If  it  were  possible  for  any 
man  to  give  utterance  to  the  simple  beauty  of  a  sunny 
day,  the  whole  world  would  treasure  the  production,  but 
like  an  artist  he  falls  far  short  of  the  original,  and  gives 
but  a  faulty  representation  of  matchless  nature.  We  men- 
tion a  hill,  a  field  and  a  butterfly,  but  we  cannot  make 
them  blend  properly.  Sometimes  I  think  that  he  who 
makes  no  notes,  is  the  wiser  man.  There  is,  however, 
certainly  a  fascination  in  simply  collecting  and  keeping 
a  record  of  the  ways  of  beasties.  One's  acquaintance 
among  them  widens  rapidly,  yet  beyond  there  is  ever  a 
haze.  We  never  become  thoroughly  acquainted  with  a 
grasshopper  or  a  butterfly,  and  in  that  array  of  plants  that 

2051009 


inhabit  the  Island,  individual  rareties  appear  most  unex- 
pectedly, and  prove  themselves  additions  to  that  already 
extensive  catalogue  compiled  by  the  chief  clerks  of  our 
local  flora. 

Thus  with  some  of  the  members  of  that  collecting 
and  tramping  fraternity,  of  which  the  Island  possesses  a 
goodly  number,  I  went  afield,  but  more  often  I  rambled 
alone.  Nature  seems  to  speak  more  directly  to  a  lone 
rambler,  and  to  a  number  of  persons  in  company  she 
rarely  says  a  word.  Two,  at  most,  can  tread  evenly  the 
same  path,  can  be  touched  by  the  same  sense,  and  echo  to 
each  other  with  pleasant  minor  changes,  the  influences  of 
the  way. 

In  character  these  pages  are  miscellaneous  as  were 
the  excursions  they  commemorate,  and  they  might  have 
been  much  extended,  but  perhaps  a  small  potion  of  an 
untried  compound  will  be  preferred  by  the  reader.  It  is 
the  fashion  to  condemn,  and  I  do  not  expect  the  majority 
to  be  at  variance  with  that  mood,  but  perhaps  to  some 
loiterer  by  the  hedge-rows,  I  may  speak  sincerely,  and  he 
will  prize  the  result  of  my  humble  effort  to  write  something 
of  nature  and  old  Staten  Island.  \V.  T.  D. 


NEW  BRIGHTON. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

FIRST  SIGNS 6 

AFTER  THE  SNOW 7 

THE  BENISON  OF  SPRING 13 

SOUTH  BEACH 19 

BY  THE  RIPPLING  SEA 49 

THE  OLD  STONE  HOUSE 57 

TENANTS 64 

NATIVE   BROOKS 72 

THE  POND-MEADOW 84 

THE  PARKS 104 

THE  TURNPIKE  ROAD Ill 

REFLECTIONS ...  ...  128 


FIRST  SIGNS. 


»S  soon  as  Spring,  with  its  leaves  and  flowers, 
Has  made  field  and  wood-land  so  pleasing, 
Warming  alike  earth's  heart  and  ours, 

And  the  poor  little  brook  that  was  freezing 
As  soon  as  Phoebe  has  reared  her  first  young 

As  of  years  under  eaves  protecting, 
The  poplar  its  pollen  and  catkins  wide  flung 
And  light,  trembling  leaves,  perfecting. 

Then  we  see  creeping  o'er  Nature's  bright  face 

The  first  signs  of  Autumn  advancing, 
It  may  be  a  berry  ahead  in  the  race, 

Itself  and  its  kind  enhancing; 
It  may  be  a  leaf  turned  yellow  at  prime, 

A  late  butterfly  early  appearing, 
Or  it  may  be  that  beat,  beat,  pulse  like  rhyme, 

A  cricket  to  cricket  a-cheering. 


AFTER  THE  SNOW. 


THERE  is  a  continuous  song  in  the  valley  to-day. 
The  warm  breath  of  Spring  is  borne  on  the  south 
wind  and  the  snow  fades  fast  on  the  hillside. 
Everything  is  moving.  The  very  road  seems  to  be  on  the 
run,  glistening  in  the  sunlight,  and  a  bird  perching  on  the 
alder  bushes  jars  the  pollen  from  the  catkins.  It  is  pleas- 
ant to  hear  the  constant  warble ;  to  get  a  cedar  branch 
and  lie  down  on  it  in  the  warm  sunshine  and  have  the 
little  yellow  flies  come  and  make  their  toilet  on  the  twigs. 
They  rub  their  heads  with  their  forelegs,  until  the  slender 
necks  seem  nigh  unto  breaking.  They  look  so  comically 
wise,  so  matter-of-fact,  so  business-like,  one  is  almost 
inclined  to  address  them.  How  much  does  a  cold,  stormy 
day  or  a  sunny  one  signify  to  them  ?  It  is  their  life  or 
death,  it  is  their  chance.  The  sun  hidden  for  even  an  hour 
behind  a  cloud  has  a  greater  potency  in  nature  than  we 
commonly  credit.  The  rise  and  fall  of  our  health  and 
vigor — our  spirits — go  up  and  down  like  the  mercury  in  a 
thermometer,  and  passing  clouds,  sunshine  and  cold,  have 
much  to  do  with  it.  So,  with  the  flies,  we  must  have 
courage,  be  satisfied  with  the  hour.  They  rub  their  heads 
and  scrape  their  feet  in  comfort,  and  nothing  that  we  can 
do  will  bring  us  any  greater  advantage  than  this. 


8       .  After  the  Snow. 

The  crows  step  about  circumspectly  in  the  open.  The 
snow-birds  sing  a  quaint  little  warble.  Sometimes,  as  if  by 
mutual  agreement,  they  fly  from  the  ground  where  they 
have  been  hunting,  to  the  trees,  and  one  sees  that  they  are 
on  the  constant  watch  for  enemies.  Their  flesh-tinted  bills 
show  plainly  against  their  slate-colored  heads  and  upper 
breast,  and  all  the  day  they  may  linger  about  a  single 
patch  of  woods — under  the  pines  and  cedars.  Their 
colors  are  intensified  now ;  a  few,  perhaps  from  ill-health, 
are  not  quite  so  bright  as  the  others.  When  they  come  to 
drink  at  a  pool  only  six  feet  away,  their  attire  seems 
quaintly  neat.  It  is  impressive  that  nature  makes  a  thou- 
sand coats  that  agree  in  stripe  and  feather,  and  also  is 
creative  of  countless  variations  of  the  same  general  form. 

Nearly  all  of  the  pine  seeds  have  fallen,  but  a  few 
remain  at  the  base  of  the  cones,  tucked  away  mid  the 
lamellae.  These  the  yellow-birds  discover,  pull  them  from 
their  hiding,  take  the  seeds  from  their  clasps,  and  the 
"  wings  "  come  falling  down.  If  a  cone  is  rapped  sharply 
the  perfect  seeds  tumble  out,  falling  at  first  quite  fast,  until 
the  rotary  motion  reaches  its  maximum,  when  they  go 
spinning  around,  looking  much  like  flying  insects — day-flies 
with  gauzy  wings.  A  shot,  that  was  perhaps  aimed  at  a 
robin,  falls  from  the  cone  with  the  seeds.  It  started  on  its 
journey  with  much  noise  and  smoke,  and  now,  six  months 
after,  completes  its  course  and  drops  gently  to  the  ground. 

This  morning  the  hill-side  was  white  with  the  snow, 
but  now  there  are  only  patches  left,  and  their  edges  move 
like  the  hands  of  a  clock.  We  look  away  and  then  look 
back  again,  after  a  time,  and  see  that  they  have  moved, 


After  the  Snow.  9 

that  the  little  white  patch  has  shrunken,  but  we  cannot  see 
it  done,  for  the  "  speed  is  but  the  heavy  plummet's  pace." 
An  occasional  beetle  appears  on  the  snow,  running  about 
in  much  haste,  its  black  body  showing  plainly.  The  pro- 
tective coloring  is  at  fault  there,  but  it  resents  all  interference 
with  a  strong-odored,  acrid  secretion,  which  taints  the 
fingers  long  afterward.  The  wasps  fly  out  from  their 
winter  hiding,  and  seek  the  open  places  where  the  grass  is, 
but  they  are  weak,  and  when  you  come  near  they  make 
several  efforts,  fall  on  their  sides,  and  finally,  with  much 
labor,  fly  away. 

A  pair  of  bluebirds,  looking  for  a  home,  find  the  old 
hollow  tree  in  the  field.  They  call  constantly  to  each 
other,  and  the  male  seems  to  think  that  most  any  place 
will  do.  He  pokes  his  head  into  a  hollow  and  calls 
ardently  to  his  mate,  and  when  she  comes  he  flutteis 
about  on  the  branch  and  utters  an  almost  squeaking  cry. 
But  the  madam  is  more  particular,  and  flies  away  after  a 
moment's  examination.  What  a  noble  use  nature  makes 
of  many  artificial  things !  The  wild  woodbine  climbs  the 
fence  and  the  caterpillars  spin  their  cocoons  there,  or  hang 
in  chrysalis  from  the  rails,  and  when  a  bluebird  calls  to  its 
mate  from  a  telegraph  wire  it  bears  truly  a  message  of 
love.  His  voice  is  mild,  and  is  in  sympathy  with  the 
more  kindly  human  messages  that  are  carried  unknown  to 
him  by  the  wire  beneath  his  feet.  He  seems  to  have  been 
born  a  gentleman,  to  be  incapable  of  any  meanness,  and 
he  has  much  of  "  that  inbred  loyalty  unto  virtue."  You 
fancy  that  he  is  strictly  honest,  and  is  not  on  speaking 
terms  with  the  wily  crow. 


10  After  the  Snow. 

An  old  man  comes  across  the  field  with  a  hand-saw 
and  a  ladder.  He  talks  about  the  day — "  how  sunny  it 
is,"  and  that  he  is  going  to  cut  cedar  limbs  for  the  cows ; 
they  like  something  green.  While  they  come  up  and  rub 
their  noses  against  him,  he  tells  their  names :  that  Lesa 
was  born  on  Inauguration  day ;  that  he  "  brought  her  up 
like  a  baby,  fed  her  by  hand,  because  her  mother  was 
sick,"  and  that  on  the  4th  of  March  this  year  she  had  her 
third  calf.  Though  Lesa  is  trustful  of  him,  he  is  plotting 
against  her  offspring,  and  asks  concerning  a  butcher  that 
might  buy  it,  for  "  it  is  now  three  weeks  old."  Soon  the 
application  of  the  proper  name  for  one  of  the  three  roan 
cows  becomes  a  question,  and  we  ask  for  enlightenment. 
"  Don't  you  see  Hannah  is  bigger  than  Jane,  higher,  Jane 
is  two  months  older,  though,  and  Lesa  has  the  broken 
horn."  The  old  man  goes  down  the  hill  to  the  cedars, 
the  cows  go  running  after,  and  he  every  now  and  then 
slaps  them  with  the  flat  of  the  saw,  to  keep  them  at  a 
proper  distance,  and  when  the  cedar-limb  falls  off  its 
foliage  is  devoured  with  evident  satisfaction. 

The  purple  tiger-beetles  fly  along  the  wood-paths ;  the 
honey-bees  congregate  where  the  sap  oozes  from  the 
stumps  of  trees  cut  down  in  the  winter,  and  the  damp  piles 
of  cordwood  give  off  a  strong,  pleasant  fragrance — 'tis 
the  odor  of  vegetable  blood.  A  beautiful  deep  orange, 
black,  and  brown  moth  flies  in  numbers  in  the  young 
growth,  every  now  and  then  resting  on  a  branch-tip,  for 
Brephos  infans  comes  on  the  warm  days  in  March,  with 
the  lingering  snow. 

The  male  wood-frogs  are  numerous  in  the  pools,  and 


After  the  Snow.  11 

their  croaking  sounds  like  a  number  of  men  calking  a  ship, 
striking  at  variance  with  one  another.  Or  perhaps  we 
should  say  that  the  calking  of  a  ship  sounds  like  the 
croaking  of  wood-frogs,  for  the  latter  is  the  more  natural 
sound,  and  has  the  advantage  of  priority.  Before  Noah 
made  his  boat  of  gopher-wood,  and  Jason  sailed  the 
^Egean  sea,  the  wood-frog  sang  in  the  Spring  of  the  year. 
In  the  woods,  a  long  way  from  the  pool,  a  female  frog 
comes  hopping,  hopping — two  long  leaps  and  then  a  rest. 
So  she  makes  her  way  to  the  general  assemblage  of  her 
kind.  When  you  stoop  to  pick  her  up  she  crouches  closer 
to  the  earth,  and  her  colors  are  brighter  now  than  at  any 
other  season.  The  red-brown  is  intensified,  and  the  dark 
stripe  on  either  side  of  the  head  is  more  marked.  The 
majority  of  the  males  are  dark  mottled  brown,  with  broader 
stripes  on  the  head,  but  a  few  are  of  the  same  general 
color  as  the  females.  All  of  the  spawn  is  deposited  in  a 
space  about  a  yard  square,  and  in  this  one  pool  there  are 
over  fifty  of  the  round  gelatinous  masses  adhering  to  the  dead 
grass- stems  and  twigs.  Soon  the  assemblages  will  disperse, 
and  the  frogs  will  sing  no  more;  they  will  lead  solitary 
lives  until  another  year. 

In  a  swamp  a  cardinal  bird  sings  from  a  tree-top,  first 
one  and  then  the  other  of  his  songs :  chuck — chuck — chuck, 
rendered  fast,  as  if  calling  the  chickens;  and  hue,  hue,  hue, 
repeated  about  a  dozen  times,  bringing  an  echo  from  the 
opposite  hill.  The  notes  have  a  particular  whistling 
sound,  like  a  switch  passed  rapidly  through  the  air,  which 
our  words  cannot  render,  and  for  which  the  cardinal  alone 
knows  the  alphabet.  From  the  same  swamp  a  peeper- 


12  After  the  Snow. 

frog  is  calling,  and  we  think  of  the  gray  December  days 
when  we  heard  him  sing,  and  how  all  Winter  he  has  lain 
securely  in  his  cold  bed. 

All  along  the  hills  at  sunset  the  song-sparrows  are 
singing,  and  the  chew,  chew,  chew,  of  the  tufted  titmouse 
sounds  from  the  higher  trees.  The  sparrows  are  numerous 
mid  the  young  growth  by  the  fences,  and  hide  behind  the 
close  clumps  of  blackberry  stems,  or  hop  so  rapidly  as  to 
appear  to  run  along  the  ground.  Though  they  quarrel 
sometimes  most  desperately,  yet  their  present  twitterings 
seem  to  indicate  a  great  store  of  serenity,  and  you  imagine 
that  if  you  could  always  wander  by  these  sunny  hedge- 
rows and  through  the  woods,  nature  would  also  bestow 
upon  you  this  same  mild  tone. 


THE  BENISON  OF  SPRING. 


HESE  Spring  days,  when  we  hear  the  bluebirds  carol, 
and  mark  the  revivifying  influence  of  the  season,  we 
are  sure  to  be  affected  thereby,  and  my  companion 
smiles  to  see  me  dance  beneath  the  pine  tree.  "  You  seem 
happy,"  he  says,  and  yet  I  notice  the  light  kindle  in  his 
own  eyes,  for  the  sunshine,  the  bluebirds  and  the  robins 
have  not  come  in  vain  to  him. 

What  a  blessing  are  the  balmy  hours  of  Spring !  The 
warm  sun  distills  a  fragrance  from  the  earth,  and  in  the 
waste  pastures,  where  there  is  a  thick  mat  of  vegetation, 
this  odor  is  particularly  strong.  Nature  is  stirring  straw- 
berries and  crickets  into  life.  The  air  is  full  of  little  flies, 
beetles  run  along  the  roadway,  dogs  lie  asleep  on  the  grass 
and  the  yellow  flicker  sounds  his  rattle  in  the  trees.  Then 
does  the  light  within  burn  brightest,  and  our  hearts  seem 
to  beat  more  joyously  than  they  have  all  Winter  long,  and 
we  are  happy  and  at  least  transiently  well  under  the  sun. 
Old  Sol  smiles  at  our  ways ;  we  are  flies  on  the  sunny  side 
of  a  pumpkin  to  him,  and  to  ourselves  we  know  not  what 
we  are. 


14  The  Benison  of  Spring. 

It  is  a  blessing  to  retain  the  simple  delights  of  child- 
hood, to  be  easily  pleased,  and  it  is  well  to  be  affected  by 
the  greening  of  the  earth,  even  though  we  cannot  exactly 
mention  the  charm  or  tell  why  we  should  be  glad.  It  is 
no  wonder  that  there  have  been  May-poles,  no  wonder 
that  the  shepherds  of  old  danced  about  the  straws  in  the 
field  at  the  feasts  of  Pales,  and  no  wonder  again  that  my 
companion  and  I  become  joyous  in  the  hopeful  days  of 
Spring. 

The  poet  straightway  goes  to  his  garret  and  commences 
writing  verses.  He  must,  at  least,  have  his  outburst  of 
vernal  song — it,  too.  is  one  of  the  signs  of  the  season.  The 
red  maples  are  aglow,  the  pussy  willows  invite  the  bees 
and  those  big  burly  flies,  with  hairy  bodies,  that  fly  with 
ponderous  inaccuracy.  The  marsh  marigolds  spread  their 
yellow  flowers,  and  the  hermit  thrush  sits  silently  on  the 
trees,  his  shadow  cast,  mayhap,  in  some  dark,  leaf-laden  pool. 

The  skunk-cabbage  spathes  have  long  had  their  heads 
above  the  surface,  and  when  I  see  them  I  think  of  Cad- 
mus and  the  dragon's  teeth.  They  are  spotted,  are  brown, 
yellow,  red  and  olive-green,  and  have  long  twisted  apices 
sometimes,  like  the  ends  of  the  caps  in  which  fairies  are 
occasionally  depicted.  Withal  they  have  a  mysterious  ap- 
pearance, as  if  the  dragon's  teeth  were  sprouting.  I  see 
where  they  have  been  dug  up,  for  these  queer  mythical 
things  are  in  favor  on  Fifth  avenue.  The  false  hellebore 
is  also  ever  a  surprise  as  it  springs  from  among  the  brown 
dead  leaves.  It  has  so  early  a  tropical  splendor,  and  the 
Spring  does  not  seem  old  enough  to  have  given  birth  to 
such  luxuriant  vegetation. 


The  Benison  of  Spring.  15 

We  meet  an  old  man  along  the  road  and  he  tells  us 
how  he's  had  a  cold  all  Winter.  "  If  I  could  onlv  have 
gone  South,"  says  he,  "but  what  can  a  poor  man  do?" 
But  now  it  is  Spring,  and  he  straightens  himself  up  and 
looks  brighter.  A  dose  of  Spring  cures  many  a  malady. 
If  we  wait  long  enough  the  Earth  transports  us  from  the 
pole  to  the  equator,  and  we  finally  get  thawed.  We  shed 
our  overcoats — our  outermost  cuticle  comes  off — and  may- 
hap the  moths  wear  it  all  Summer.  Thus  do  we  greet  the 
warm  days,  and  hope  grows  with  the  radishes  in  the  gar- 
den. 

Alas,  our  best  health,  the  most  robust  condition  that 
many  of  us  ever  attain,  would  be  considered  by  some  a 
state  needing  a  doctor's  care.  Our  ills  fit  us  after  a  while 
like  old  clothes.  Life  hangs  by  a  thread,  and  even  that  is 
seldom  a  whole  one.  Several  of  its  strands  are  commonly 
broken ;  we  patch  them  together  and  put  a  porous  plaster 
over  the  weak  spot.  Thus  do  we  live,  being  half  dead. 

But  Spring  is  a  blessing;  we  become  more  sprightly 
than  usual,  and  he  must  be  old  and  miserable,  indeed,  who 
does  not  glow  a  little  when  he  sees  the  violets,  the  ane- 
mones, the  adders'  tongues,  and  hears  the  sweet  cadence 
of  the  field  sparrow's  song.  Why  is  it  that  they  look  up 
to  Heaven  when  they  sing  ?  I  suppose  it  may  be  ex- 
plained in  some  mundane  way  that  will  give  no  credit  to 
spiritual  feelings ;  but  certainly  it  is  a  pretty  form  of  the 
chippie's  and  of  this  bunting  of  the  pastures. 

I  must  not  forget  the  dandelions  that  star  the  grass  all 
over,  for  they  are  truly  the  flowers  of  our  balmy  days,  and, 
indeed,  they  are  not  happy  if  the  sun  does  not  shine,  for 


16  The  Benison  of  Spring. 

they  keep  their  bright  yellow  faces  from  dark  and  sullen 
skies.  Again,  when  the  Spring  is  gone,  and  Summer  is 
gone,  and  the  trees  glow  with  their  crimson  leaves,  or, 
mayhap,  have  lost  them  entirely,  how  cheering  is  the  bright 
yellow  face  of  the  dandelion,  as  it  nestles  on  its  short  stem 
in  some  sheltered  nook  !  It  hugs  the  earth  then,  as  if  it 
suspected  Winter,  and  does  not  grow  as  fearlessly  as  the 
spring-time  flower. 

But  we  must  hasten  back  to  Spring,  for  indeed  it  is  in 
haste  itself,  and  will  be  too  quickly  passed.  My  companion 
says:  "  Do  not  let  us  have  June  right  away,  for  then  it  is 
July  and  then  Autumn,  and  then  our  year  is  gone."  So  we 
hasten  back  to  Spring,  to  the  blood-root  blossoms,  to  the 
arbutus  and  the  bluets. 

The  rhubarb  comes  up  quite  gaily  in  the  garden  and 
commences  to  spread  its  elephant-eared  leaves.  It  is  true 
it  has  been  peeping  forth  this  long  time,  seeing,  perhaps, 
whether  it  was  safe  to  come  yet ;  but  the  early  days  of 
April  in  this  clime  bid  no  plant  trust  in  the  morrow.  So 
it  has  been  content  to  wait,  and  it  is  only  just  now  that  it 
has  decided  to  push  upward  its  rose-colored  stalks.  But 
the  old  pear-tree  has  a  greater  show,  and,  I  believe,  if  a 
man  could  live  two  hundred  years  and  retain  his  eyesight, 
he  would  stand  every  Spring  to  admire  the  pageant  ot 
blossoms.  It  has  looked  dull  and  half-dead  all  Winter, 
and  you  might  have  cut  it  down  for  firewood,  but  now  it 
seems  a  sacrilege  to  break  even  one  of  its  branches.  The 
warblers  come  and  tarry  among  its  blossoms,  and  help, 
with  their  bright  colored  bodies,  to  make  a  more  splendid 
show. 


The  Benison  of  Spring.  17 

How  gaudy  Nature  is !  Mankind  would  fain  bedizen 
itself  with  the  most  splendid  attire,  but  it  only  manages  to 
steal  a  little  of  her  magnificent  raiment.  With  the  onrush 
of  spring  blossoms  come  the  gaily-decked  hats,  the  bees 
even  mistaking  them  occasionally  for  Nature's  flowers, 
such  pains  have  been  taken  to  imitate  her ;  but  alas  you 
may  sometimes  see  an  Autumn  blossom  peeping  forth  from 
the  wealth  of  cowslips.  I  know  that  Cybele  and  Ceres  do 
now  and  then  get  sadly  mixed,  do  bring  forth  willow- 
pussies,  dandelions,  violets  and  other  Spring  flowers  in  De- 
cember and  January,  and  the  old  pear-tree  occasionally 
produces  a  few  blossoms  in  October,  so  I  suppose  the 
human  sisters  of  Flora  and  her  kin  are  amply  excused  for 
jumbling  the  seasons. 

There  is  a  happy  languor  that  accompanies  the  days 
of  Spring,  and  people  loll  in  the  sun  or  sit  lazily  on  the 
piazza,  and  then  stretch  themselves  like  the  pussy  that  has 
taken  her  nap  before  the  fire.  This  pleasant  tiredness  is 
called  "  spring  fever,"  and  would  that  our  ailments  were 
all  so  welcome.  It  was  the  only  disease  known  in  the  gar- 
den of  Eden  during  the  spring-time  of  our  race,  and  with 
our  love  for  the  beautiful  in  nature,  is  a  heritage  from  that 
golden  age. 

The  greening  of  Spring  is  certainly  the  nearest  we 
know  to  an  absolute  creation,  so  many  things  are  new 
about  us.  The  old  year  and  its  countless  predecessors  are 
back  of  it  all  no  doubt,  yet  the  new  dress  covers  the  old 
so  skillfully  that  the  brown  and  dead  leaves  and  decaying 
branches  that  bestrew  the  ground  do  not  seem  to  intrude 
upon  the  scene. 


18  The  Benison  of  Spring. 

My  companion  has  told  me  in  Spring  that  he  has  seen 
the  little  blue  butterflies,  has  told  it  as  a  piece  of  news,  as 
one  of  those  signs  of  the  season  for  which  we  watch  and 
wait.  Of  all  the  tokens  these  little  blue  butterflies,  flitting 
among  the  yellow  flowered  benzoin  bushes,  touch  the  sense 
of  our  joy  in  the  season  most  deeply,  unless,  indeed,  it 
may  be  those  first  twitterings  of  swallows.  They  are  truly 
divine  birds  and  do  make  the  season  glad,  and  the  farmer 
hails  them  with  pleasure  when  they  return  to  his  barn. 
They  speak,  in  their  ways,  a  pleasant  trustfulness  that  is 
flattering  to  cold-hearted  man,  of  whom  so  many  innocent 
creatures  are  so  justly  afraid.  They  fly  in  and  out  of  the 
open  barn-door  and  about  the  house,  and  show  by  their 
marvelous  flights  how  easily  they  could  be  away,  yet  they 
return  again  to  man's  protection.  I  am  afraid  that  the  joy 
the  swallows  bring,  as  they  come  with  the  genial  days, 
cannot  be  set  down  in  commonplace  words.  When  I  see 
them  fly  and  hear  their  twitter,  it  seems  to  me  that  I  am 
not  half  expressive  enough;  there  is  something  still  to 
say,  and  I  look  in  strange  bewilderment,  realizing  an  ever- 
unutterable  influence. 


SOUTH  BEACH. 


THERE  is  but  one  short  stretch  of  sandy  beach  on 
Staten  Island,  from  which  the  shore  rambler  may 
see  the  line  where  sky  and  ocean  meet ;  in  all  other 
directions  the  view  is  bounded  by  New  Jersey  or  Long 
Island,  and  the  waves  come  more  gently  to  the  shore. 

It  was  along  this  South  Beach  that  in  1676  Jasper 
Bankers  and  Peter  Sluyter  wandered,  the  place  being 
quite  a  wilderness  then,  and  their  description  of  the  herds 
of  deer,  the  wild  turkeys  and  geese,  cause  one  to-day  to 
read  the  account  several  times  over,  so  interesting  is  the 
narrative.  They  visited  the  Oude  Dorp  and  the  Nieuwe 
Dorp ;  made  leg -wearying  journeys  around  the  creeks  that 
reach  far  inland,  and  found  great  difficulty  in  climbing  the 
steep  tree-covered  bank  where  Fort  Wadsworth  now 
stands.  No  longer,  indeed,  do  the  moss-bunkers  lie  dying 
by  the  thousands,  as  they  describe,  "  food  for  the  eagles 
and  other  birds  of  prey,"  for  though  it  might  seem  improb- 
able to  those  not  interested  in  the  matter,  yet  it  is  true 
that  not  only  do  the  land  animals  fall  year  by  year  before 
advancing  civilization,  but  the  life  that  ocean  would  seem 
to  hold  so  securely,  is  also  being  gradually  stolen  away. 


20  South  Beach. 

When  Thoreau  lived  on  Staten  Island  in  1843,  residing 
with  Mr.  William  Emerson  on  the  Richmond  road,  he 
rambled  on  this  shore,  and  he  tells  us  about  the  dogs  that 
used  to  bark  at  him  as  he  tramped  along.  He  says : 
"  1  used  to  see  packs  of  half- wild  dogs  haunting  the  lonely 
beach  on  the  south  shore  of  Staten  Island,  in  New  York 
Bay,  for  the  sake  of  the  carrion  there  cast  up ;  and  I 
remember  that  once,  when  for  a  long  time  I  had  heard  a 
furious  barking  in  the  tall  grass  of  the  marsh,  a  pack  of 
half  a  dozen  large  dogs  burst  forth  on  to  the  beach,  pur- 
suing a  little  one,  which  ran  straight  to  me  for  protection, 
and  I  afforded  it  with  some  stones,  though  at  some  risk  to 
myself;  but  the  next  day  the  little  one  was  the  first  to 
bark  at  me." 

Mr.  Aug.  R.  Grote,  the  naturalist,  and  author  of  some 
pleasing  poems,  says  in  his  "  Check- List  of  North  Ameri- 
can Moths  " :  "  What  a  range  of  thought  one  can  run 
over  catching  butterflies  along  the  hedgerows.  I  come 
back  to  my  first  surprise,  when,  as  a  boy,  I  caught  Cicin- 
delas  on  the  south  beach  of  Staten  Island.  I  saw  that 
there  were  numerous  questions  hanging  about  unsolved  as 
I  was  bottling  my  captures." 

Though  these  tiger-beetles  still  fly  on  the  South  Beach, 
each  July  seeing  their  return,  yet  the  scene  has  changed 
considerably.  Indeed  we  cannot  ramble  along  the  same 
shore  that  Bankers  and  Sluyter  and  Thoreau  did,  for  the 
beach  of  a  hundred,  or  even  of  fifty,  years  ago  is  now  far 
out  under  the  waves.  It  has  been  estimated  that  each 
century  brings  with  it  about  twenty  inches  depression,  and 
owing  to  the  flat  character  of  the  country,  many  acres  of 


South  Beach.  21 

woodland  and  field  have  been  washed  away.  History 
says  the  Elm  Tree  lighthouse  received  its  name  from  a 
tree  of  this  kind  growing,  in  1840,  beyond  the  end  of  the 
present  dock,  which  extends  about  four  hundred  feet  into 
the  water.  On  an  old  map,  published  in  1797,  this  tree  is 
depicted  as  one  of  the  landmarks,  and  before  the  days  of 
the  lighthouse  it  served  to  guide  vessels  into  the  harbor. 
On  the  map  is  written  this  inscription  beside  the  figure  of 
the  tree :  "  Large  Elm  tree  Standing  by  the  Shore  a 
Mark  for  Vessels  leaving  and  going  from  New  York  to 
Amboy,  Middletown  and  Brunswick."  Further  along  the 
shore  we  have  been  shown  two  cedars  in  front  of  which 
the  old  men  used  to  play  ball  when  boys,  but  the  trees  now 
stand  near  the  edge  of  the  bank,  which  is  crumbling  away 
a  little  each  year. 

It  was  not  long  ago  that  the  boulevard  was  built,  a 
little  up  from  the  high-tide  mark,  and  New  Creek  was 
bridged,  but  in  many  places  only  a  trace  of  the  road  now 
remains.  New  Creek  is  very  erratic  as  regards  at  least  a 
portion  of  its  course,  and  previous  to  the  winter  of 
1883-84  emptied  a  quarter  of  a  mile  or  more  to  the  south- 
west of  its  present  mouth.  There  was  a  great  point 
formed  by  its  winding  course,  on  which  the  ribbed  Pecten 
shells  occurred  in  numbers.  Each  year  this  point  grew 
longer,  until  at  last  the  stream  flowed  so  slowly  that  in  the 
winter  mentioned  it  froze  up,  and  the  upland  became 
flooded.  When  spring  came  the  water  broke  through 
straight  to  the  ocean,  and  now  another  point  is  being 
slowly  formed. 

In  1797  the  creek  is  portrayed  as  emptying  straight  to 


22  South  Beach. 

the  ocean,  without  any  accompanying  point,  but  on  the 
maps  of  1850,  1859,  and  1872,  the  point  is  shown.  On 
the  old  map  already  referred  to  a  line  of  trees  is  depicted 
near  the  mouth  of  the  creek,  and  probably  there  was  a 
considerable  wood  there.  Now  there  remains  a  clump 
of  cedars,  and  the  dead  post  oaks  are  ranged  in  rows,  and 
branches  that  belonged  to  trees  of  the  same  kind  may  be 
pulled  out  of  the  peat,  that  in  places  forms  little  cliffs. 
This  peat  was  originally  formed  when  the  present  shore 
was  a  part  of  a  salt  meadow,  and  in  its  way  is  very  inter- 
esting, for  it  offers  a  secure  retreat  to  many  a  tender- 
shelled  mollusk  and  timid  crab.  Pieces  of  it  are  con- 
stantly being  broken  off,  and  roll  with  ceaseless  roll,  until 
they  mimic  the  most  approved  forms  of  the  baker's  loaves. 
Cedar  trees  may  also  be  seen  dead  or  dying,  their  trunks 
buried  a  foot  or  more  in  the  sand,  or  the  soil  washed  away 
from  their  roots,  which  sprawl  in  a  ghastly  fashion  mid 
dead  crabs  and  the  wrecks  of  things  that  the  ocean  has 
thrown  away.  What  a  marvelous  hoard  of  dead  creatures 
the  sea  casts  up  to  the  land !  Many  poor  mussels  that 
seemed  securely  anchored  in  the  morning,  ere  night  are 
dying  on  the  shore.  It  seems  useless  to  throw  them  back* 
for  the  waves,  with  a  roar,  bring  them  again  and  cast 
them  at  your  feet. 

On  Winter  tramps  I  meet  the  crows  looking  for  cast 
up  treasures,  and  their  success  oftentimes  is  greater  than 
my  own ;  for  many  a  fine  "  lady  crab  "  or  "  decorator " 
have  I  mourned  over — sighed  for  the  lost  leg  or  missing 
"  apron."  The  gulls,  too,  rejoice  at  the  death  of  the  crab, 
and  in  Winter  they  frequent  in  numbers  the  sandy  points, 


South  Beach.  23 

from  which  they  rise  with  weird  screams.  They  often  sit 
motionless  in  rows  at  low  water  line,  apparently  many  of 
them  asleep,  and  when  the  tide  rises  they  float  on  the 
waves  in  nearly  the  same  place  where  they  were  standing 
before.  A  few  of  their  cries  sound  remarkably  like  some 
one  hoisting  a  sail  with  the  aid  of  a  creaking  pulley,  and 
1  have  several  times  been  deceived  thereby,  and  have 
looked  about  expecting  to  find  a  mariner  close  in  shore. 

Of  all  the  shells  that  line  the  shore,  mid  "  gingle  shells," 
that  rattle  with  a  metallic  sound,  and  "  boat  shells,"  whose 
inner  coloring  is  equal  to  anything  in  nature's  art,  there  is 
one  of  curious  shape  and  delicate  marking  called  the  shell 
of  Pandora.  Three  faint  lines  radiate  from  one  end  of  the 
hinge  over  the  pearly  surface,  and  the  valves  are  generally 
found  together,  resisting  storm  and  waves.  There  is  a 
little  space  between,  for  they  are  not  usually  tightly  closed, 
but  Hope  being  so  great  a  thing  is  still  held  as  captive. 
Thus  is  this  shell  most  aptly  named,  and  we  peer  within 
to  see  what  may  be  hidden  there,  and  in  the  grains  of  sand 
are  our  hopes  and  our  fortunes  portrayed,  for  perhaps  to 
the  world  the  one  is  as  important  as  the  other. 

On  cold  Winter  days,  as  well  as  in  Summer,  a  blind 
man  comes  out,  and,  with  a  long  stick  feels  carefully  for 
the  drift  wood.  Oftentimes  the  small  boys  collect  sticks, 
and  placing  them  in  his  path,  watch  him  find  them. 

A  hermit  came  to  the  shore  a  few  years  ago  and  built 
his  house  of  drift  wood  on  the  sand  near  the  bridge,  cover- 
ing it  with  old  tin  and  putting  one  small  pane  in  the  front  for 
a  window.  With  the  fish  he  catches,  the  gulls  and  ducks 
that  he  shoots,  and  what  can  be  found  on  the  beach,  he 


24  South  Beach. 

gets  a  living,  and  pays  no  taxes.  "  A  fellow  must  do 
something,"  says  he,  "  and  so  I  came  here  and  built  my 
house.  I  used  to  live  over  on  Long  Island."  In  the 
morning  the  sun  comes  up  from  the  sea  in  front  of  his 
door,  and  at  evening  it  sinks  behind  the  western  hills; 
but  no  man  conies  to  disturb  the  hermit.  He  is  a  stranger 
to  the  rush  and  the  set  tasks  of  the  world,  and  he  is  free, 
where  many  are  fettered. 

Of  drift  wood  there  is  no  end,  neither  is  there  of  old 
shoes,  mousetraps,  brooms  and  all  other  household  utensils. 
Even  coal  and  metal  objects  are  washed  ashore.  I  found 
a  table  one  day,  with  a  full  complement  of  legs,  and  a 
friend  discovered  a  coffee  pot,  cover  and  all,  and  with  a 
blameless  bottom.  One  might  become  quite  a  connoisseur 
in  bottles,  for  the  Frenchman,  the  German,  the  Italian  and 
the  Irishman  each  throws  his  bottle  overboard,  and  com- 
ing ashore  they  mix  with  the  American  bottles  on  the 
beach.  So  various  in  shape  and  general  appearance  are 
they  that  one  readily  falls  to  giving  them  supposed  quali- 
fications, such  as  phlegmatic,  sanguine  and  bilious  bottles. 
I  have  seen  those  that  looked  ill  though  full  of  medicine, 
and  they  are  certainly  often  very  blue.  Some  have  con- 
tained "  St.  Jacob's  Oil  for  man  and  beast,"  and  others  of 
a  very  odd  shape  that  appear  to  have  more  difficulty  in 
standing  than  most  bottles,  often  protrude  from  the  pock- 
ets of  amateur  fishermen. 

There  is  nothing  with  which  the  waves  seem  to  take 
more  sport  than  with  an  empty  barrel,  and  if  the  wind  be 
high  its  bouncings  and  tossings  are  wild  and  fantastic.  It 
rolls  down  the  beach  to  meet  the  incoming  wave,  and 


South  Beach.  25 

then,  mid  the  foam,  is  sent  on  its  journey  up  the  strand 
again.  There  is  no  scarcity  of  barrels  on  the  beach,  and 
on  Crooke's  Point,  which  might  be  called  the  Cape  Cod 
of  Staten  Island,  they  form  the  sides  of  the  well.  Several 
have  been  placed  one  above  the  other  in  the  sand,  and 
fresh  water  accumulates  at  the  bottom. 

All  fruits  in  their  season  find  their  way  hither,  and 
ocean  lays  things  side  by  side  in  strangest  contrast.  A 
loaf  of  bread,  some  withered  flowers,  an  old  straw  bed  on 
which,  perhaps,  a  sailor  died,  often  lie  close  together. 
Maybe  he  took  some  of  the  nostrums  contained  in  the 
bottles  scattered  about,  and  they  introduced  his  spirit  to 
the  unknown  shore. 

Thus,  when  we  wander  along  this  sandy  South  Beach, 
and  see  our  foot-prints  and  think  of  the  strange  vagaries 
that  beset  us,  as  Hawthorne  did  on  his  ramble  along  the 
shore,  other  things  come  crowding  before  us  too,  and  we 
look  at  the  houses,  the  bulkheads,  the  line  of  the  proposed 
railway,  and  think  of  the  deer  and  wild  turkeys  in  the 
days  of  Bankers  and  his  friend.  Do  we  not  then  conclude 
that  however  desirable  civilization  and  all  that  it  brings 
may  be,  yet  its  presence  in  no  way  tends  to  beautify  the 
scene. 

* 

And  now  the  years  have  sped  on,  a  great  portion  of 
the  beach  is  changed,  the  long  stretch  of  uninhabited 
strand  has  been  curtailed.  Pleasure  seekers  abound  on  the 
Summer  days,  and  there  is  a  laugh,  a  gayety,  a  gentle 
splashing  in  the  water,  and  a  rumbling  of  the  railroad 
trains. 


26  South  Beach. 

The  unconscious  sand  is  held  at  great  price,  and  the 
tiger  beetles  have  been  banished  to  further  along  the  shore. 
Waiters  rush  about  with  their  trays,  where  once  the  crows 
devoured  the  lady  crabs,  and  the  crowd  is  as  lithesome  and 
gay  as  were  the  sand-fleas  of  old. 

There  are  as  many  footsteps  on  the  sand  as  on  a  city 
pavement,  and  it  is  plain  that  it  is  not  the  beach,  but  the 
people,  that  form  the  chief  attraction — they  come  to  see 
one  another.  A  stretch  of  the  strand  is  their  meeting- 
place,  while  all  beyond  is  vacant,  where  only  a  few  fisher- 
men or  lone  wanderers  find  enjoyment. 

There  is  a  particular  type  that  discovers  the  beach  most 
congenial.  Here  his  favorite  beverage  abounds,  and  he 
enjoys  himself  hugely  all  day  long.  He  is  possessed  of 
much  rotundity  of  person,  his  eyes  are  bulging,  he  is  quite 
certain  he  knows  all  about  the  world.  His  philosophy  is, 
that  we  live  a  little  while,  but  are  a  long  time  dead.  He 
bets  that  he  can  throw  a  ring  over  a  cane,  or  can  hit  the 
bull's  eye  in  the  target,  or  one  of  the  little  tin  birds  that  are 
ever  going  round.  The  publicity  of  the  whole  matter  is 
what  pleases  him,  and  when  he  rides  the  deer  or  the  polar 
bear,  in  the  merry-go-round,  he  waves  joyously  to  the 
crowd,  and  claps  his  hands  to  the  music  of  the  organ 
behind  the  screen. 

That  wonderful  cow  with  a  tin  udder,  that  curiously 
enough  fills  her  body  to  the  exclusion  of  heart  and  lungs 
and  other  less  important  matters,  is  very  attractive.  He 
steps  up  and  has  some  ice-cold  milk,  for  this  bovine  is 
providently  organized  for  summer  weather. 

Someone  bets  him  that  he  cannot  send  the  weight  in  the 


South  Beach.  27 

sledge-machine  up  to  the  bell,  and  he  bets  he  can.  He 
grasps  the  heavy  hammer  confidently,  and  for  once  he  is 
right ;  before  his  vigorous  strokes  the  weight  flies  up  and 
the  bell  rings.  After  all  of  that  exercise  he  does  not  resort 
to  the  wonderful  cow,  but  celebrates  his  success  with  lager 
beer. 

At  night  he  goes  home  supremely  happy;  he  sings  on 
the  cars,  and  even  dances  a  little.  Mayhap  the  conductor 
comes  by  and  holds  a  quiet  talk  with  the  merrymaker,  but 
the  official  only  produces  a  momentary  quiet. 

The  simple  blithe someness  of  such  a  soul — the  boyish 
manhood — is  not  without  its  pleasing  aspect,  and  some- 
times it  is  accompanied  by  an  entertaining  personality  of 
no  mean  order.  Once  while  the  train  lay  in  the  station, 
the  passengers  crowding  the  smoker  and  the  car  adjoining, 
a  jolly  party  sang  their  songs.  One  large  man  sang 
"  Climbing  up  the  Golden  Stairs  "  in  German,  and  with 
one  accord  two  car-loads  ot  passengers  ceased  speaking, 
there  was  a  perfect  hush  while  he  sang,  such  was  the 
power  of  sweet  sounds. 

In  September,  1889,  the  swells  of  the  sea  visited  the 
"  hotels  "  in  person,  and  few  of  the  houses  escaped  without 
damage,  some  of  them  having  their  broad  piazzas  taken 
away,  for  such  was  the  rollicking  dance  of  Neptune's 
company.  After  nearly  a  week  of  dark  and  sullen  skies, 
when  the  sun  seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  earth,  it  came 
at  last,  struggling  through  the  clouds,  and  the  workmen 
appeared  in  numbers  on  the  beach,  and  engaged  them- 
selves in  repairing  the  damage  caused  by  the  breakers. 
Among  them  was  a  young  man  with  staring  dark  eyes, 


28  South  Beach. 

that  protruded  far  from  his  head,  and  had  hardly  a  human 
expression.  There  was  more  of  the  white  visible  than  of 
the  colored  iris,  and  the  effect  was  ghastly — he  looked  to 
have  the  soul  of  a  demon.  He  was  in  a  hole,  adjusting  a 
post  beneath  a  tottering  bathing  house,  and  I  and  another 
man  approached — I  from  curiosity  to  see  the  wild  eyes, 
which  I  had  noticed  on  my  way  up  the  beach,  and  he  to 
inspect  the  progress  of  the  work.  But  those  frightful  eyes 
were  truthful  windows  to  a  soul,  and  their  possessor 
demanded,  with  an  oath,  what  we  had  come  to  see. 

Beyond  New  Creek  much  of  the  old  time  quietness 
still  remains ;  we  may  ramble  as  of  yore  and  sniff  the  salt 
breeze,  and  make  a  quiet  loitering  inspection  of  that  won- 
drous hoard  of  wreck  that  ocean  has  flung  to  the  land. 
The  great  value  of  these  free  gifts  of  the  sea  have  always 
been  taken  account  of,  and  in  the  days  of  the  Revolution, 
in  the  announcement  of  the  sale  of  the  Seaman  farm,  the 
beach  and  its  wealth  are  not  forgotten.  The  property  is 
described  as  "  a  valuable  plantation  that  did  belong  to 
Mr.  Jaquis  Poilloin,  deceased,  containing  190  acres, 
exclusive  of  the  beach  and  flats  on  the  front  of  the  said 
farm,  which  will  be  included  in  the  purchase,  on  which 
comes  great  quantities  of  seaweed  (a  very  valuable 
manure)." 

Even  in  the  days  of  summer  I  have  rambled  for  miles 
without  meeting  anyone — have  gone  in  bathing  and  sat  on 
a  log  and  ate  my  lunch  while  I  dried,  the  warm,  gentle 
breezes  blowing  about  me.  One  day  as  I  came  upon  the 
beach  from  the  meadows  there  were  heavy  black  clouds  in 
the  south,  and  a  distant  sound  of  thunder.  Soon  the  sun 


South  Beach.  29 

was  hidden,  and  there  were  flashes  of  lightning.  I  hastened, 
and,  getting  a  few  boards  together,  made  a  little  shed 
against  a  log,  under  which  I  placed  my  clothes — then  I 
went  into  the  water.  Soon  the  waves  rose  white-capped, 
and  I  came  ashore ;  a  small  boat  in  the  distance  drew 
down  its  sails  and  lowered  its  anchor.  The  sand  was 
blown  so  swiftly  before  the  gale  that  it  stung  my  unpro- 
tected back ;  then  there  came  a  lull,  and  then  the  rain — a 
gentle  summer  shower.  The  drops  pelting  down  on  me 
seemed  cold,  and  they  dug  little  pits  in  the  sand,  striking 
it  with  much  force.  So  long  have  we  had  umbrellas, 
coats  or  sheepskins,  and  dwelt  in  houses,  that  to  stand 
thus  unprotected  in  even  a  summer  shower,  is  a  memorable 
experience.  Anon  the  sun  burst  forth,  and  quickly  dried 
the  sand  and  me ;  and  to  look  over  the  placid  scene  one 
would  have  thought  it  unlikely  that  a  few  moments  before 
the  leaves  had  been  wrenched  from  the  trees.  The  black 
clouds  went  sailing  off  in  the  distance,  the  small  boat  drew 
up  its  anchor  and  spread  its  sails,  and  the  grasshoppers 
sang  again  in  the  meadow. 

The  coming  in  and  going  out  of  the  tide  gives  an  extra 
interest  to  the  shore,  and  he  that  lives  by  adjusts  much  of 
his  daily  employment  to  its  rise  and  fall.  He  may  go  out 
in  the  morning  and  find  a  chair  or  a  neat  little  boat  cast 
up  at  his  door,  or  maybe  some  poor  fish  that  missed  his 
reckoning,  and  was  thrown  on  the  sand  in  consequence. 
There  is  ever  a  newness,  and  you  stand  by  expecting 
something,  just  as  the  fishermen  do  who  look  in  the 
direction  in  which  they  cast  their  lines,  though  they  can 
see  nothing  but  the  waves.  I  have  noticed  that  when 


30  South  Beach. 

dogs  are  seated  on  the  beach  they  generally  look  seaward, 
too,  and  will  often  sit  watching  the  horizon  for  a  long  time. 

About  thirty  species  of  mollusks  may  commonly  be  col- 
lected upon  the  beach,  though  many  more  have  actually 
been  found  there.  The  large  collections  of  shells  and 
little  stones,  which  are  held  together  by  the  silken  cords 
with  which  the  edible  mussel  attaches  itself  to  all  objects 
within  its  reach,  are  fruitful  places  for  research  when  cast 
upon  the  shore,  and  there  may  be  found  the  greatest 
number  of  prizes.  Also  the  large  native  sponges,  that 
come  rolling  in  with  the  waves,  contain  many  shells  and 
other  animals  that  find  in  them  protection  and  a  home. 

In  a  few  days  thousands  of  shells  of  one  species  will  some- 
times be  cast  ashore,  and  next  week  it  may  be  a  school  of 
fish  or  a  countless  multitude  of  crabs.  Thus  have  I  seen 
the  shore  for  long  distances  so  covered  with  the  recently 
cast  up  shells  of  the  sea,  or  skimmer  clam,  that  "it  was 
impossible  to  walk  without  crushing  them.  The  mole-crab 
is  also  occasionally  thrown  ashore  in  great  numbers, 
forming  a  definite  line  along  the  beach  where  they  have 
been  left  by  the  highest  wave. 

It  was  the  large  shells  of  the  skimmer  clam  that  were 
tied  to  sticks  by  the  Indians,  and  used  as  hoes. 

In  September  there  are  many  kinds  of  fish  in  the 
creek — young  bluefish,  killifish,  and  pipefish — each  kind  in 
schools,  and  on  the  unprotected  shore  there  is  a  certain 
little  fish  with  a  silvery  band  on  its  side  that  swims  in  the 
shallow  water,  going  in  and  out  with  the  waves.  It  comes 
so  close  to  the  dry  beach  that  I  have  succeeded  in  cap- 
turing it  with  my  insect  net,  which  I  slapped  down  upon 


South  Beach.  31 

it  as  if  it  had  been  a  butterfly.  Further  out  from  the  shore 
there  are  often  large  schools  of  fish,  that  make  the  water 
dark  for  a  space,  and  which  may  be  individually  distin- 
guished as  they  are  momentarily  raised  in  a  swelling  wave 
above  the  general  level  of  the  sea. 

Many  sandpipers  run  along  the  beach  at  certain  seasons, 
just  at  the  edge  of  the  waves,  and  sometimes  the  zig-zag  of 
their  motions  is  remarkable.  They  look  like  little  dancing- 
machines,  their  movements  are  so  rapid,  and  they  turn  at 
such  sharp  angles  in  their  pursuit  of  the  sandhoppers.  It 
is  fatal  for  a  sand-flea  to  have  rheumatism.  One  stormy 
day  I  particularly  observed  four  of  these  birds  standing  in 
shoal  water,  and  occasionally  running  their  bills  into  the 
sand.  The  tide  was  out,  and  they  appeared  to  be  less 
active  than  usual,  but  stood  about,  scratched  their  heads 
with  their  wet  feet,  preened  their  feathers,  and  looked  like 
four  old  men  in  gray  coats  standing  solemnly  together,  with 
their  heads  pulled  down  between  their  shoulders.  One 
of  the  number  had  but  a  single  leg,  but  he  nevertheless  got 
about  quickly,  and  seemed  well-grounded  and  sure-footed. 
He  would  stand  where  the  incoming  wave  washed  against 
him,  and  I  could  not  detect  that  he  even  so  much  as 
rocked  on  his  frail  support.  The  surviving  leg  was  slanted 
under  his  body  from  left  to  right,  so  as  to  make  the  center 
of  gravity  fall  in  the  proper  place.  One  often  hears  the 
reports  of  guns  by  the  meadow-creeks  and  on  the  shore, 
and  sees  the  little  clouds  of  smoke  curl  upward.  It  was 
thus  that  the  sandpiper  lost  his  leg,  but  the  rest  of  his  body 
was  fortunate  enough  to  fly  away.  In  these  days  of  pen- 
sions, what  is  he  to  receive  ? 


32  South  Beach. 

The  fishermen  stand  in  a  line  along  the  beach,  or  sit 
on  empty  barrels,  or  old  baskets,  or  boxes,  and  often  they 
support  their  poles  on  uprights,  and  anxiously  watch  for 
them  to  bend.  They  busy  themselves  about  the  fire,  and 
while  one  watches  the  poles  another  collects  drift-wood  to 
feed  it.  Their  lunch  is  spread  out  near  by,  and  they  dig  a 
hole  in  the  sand  wherein  to  put  the  apples  and  tomatoes, 
thus  keeping  them  from  rolling  down  the  beach.  The  fire, 
with  its  crackle  and  blue  curling  smoke,  and  the  captured 
fish  lying  by,  all  remind  you  of  a  primitive  simplicity,  and 
indeed  it  is  this  desire  to  live  close,  at  least  for  one  day,  to 
the  essentials  of  a  natural  life  that  prompts  many  of  the 
men  to  visit  the  sea-shore.  When  seen  at  a  distance,  the 
smoke  from  the  fires  tones  admirably  with  the  ocean  tints, 
and  gives  a  pleasing  haziness  to  the  surroundings.  Occa- 
sionally the  fires  are  made  against  a  big  beam,  or  a  pile, 
that  has  broken  loose  and  drifted  ashore,  and  these 
immense  pieces  of  wood  becoming  ignited,  burn  with  a 
dull  sullenness  long  after  the  rest  of  the  fire  has  gone  out. 
These  are  pleasant  places  to  tarry  on  the  cold  days,  when 
the  wind  blows  across  the  meadows  from  the  north,  and 
you  may  even  sit  on  the  beam  and  hang  your  hands  over, 
near  the  glowing  embers.  The  fire  imparts  an  inde- 
scribable character  to  the  wood;  the  beam  that  smokes 
seems  to  be  essentially  different  from  the  others  along  the 
shore,  and  you  discover  yourself  regarding  it  as  half  alive. 
But  be  very  circumspect  as  to  the  logs,  the  driftwood,  and 
pieces  of  old  vessels,  that  you  sit  upon.  On  the  warm 
days  different  substances — tar,  pitch,  resin,  and  their 
various  combinations  which  give  to  a  vessel  a  peculiar  and 


South  Beach.  33 

not  unpleasant  odor — stew  out  of  these  logs  that  lie  on 
the  hot  sand  Though  it  is  very  easy  to  sit  down  upon 
them,  yet  it  is  not  so  easy  often  to  get  away  at  the  precise 
moment  you  desire,  and  for  a  time  you  are  like  Theseus  or 
Pirithous  on  the  wayside  stone  in  the  land  of  Shades. 

When  the  tide  is  low,  the  peat-cliffs,  that  rise  a  yard 
or  more  above  the  sand  below  their  perpendicular  fronts, 
form  convenient  stations  from  whence  the  fishermen  cast 
their  lines.  The  placid  and  shallow  pools  that  remain 
between  the  tides  on  the  peat-beds  are  most  trans- 
parent, and  usually  some  living  creature  is  entrapped  in 
the  larger  of  them,  and  has  to  await  the  return  of  the 
waves  to  regain  his  liberty.  There  are  also  many  sea- 
weeds in  the  pools  that  deck  them  out  in  bright  array,  and 
while  you  peer  in  at  the  marvels  that  are  hidden  there  you 
may  hear  the  water  splashing  in  a  miniature  fall  over  the 
peat-cliff,  as  the  pool  is  gradually  drained  away.  The  peat 
is  not  over  a  foot  or  two  thick  in  most  places,  and  under  it 
is  a  layer  of  clay  containing  innumerable  water-worn 
pebbles.  Many  of  them  are  of  brown  sandstone,  and  it  is 
from  this  source  that  the  pebbles  that  line  the  immediate 
upshore  come,  and  from  which  much  of  the  beach  to  the 
eastward  is  entirely  free.  There  is  also  a  great  number 
of  edible  mussel  shells  at  this  part  of  the  shore,  and 
they  crackle  under  your  feet  as  you  walk  along,  and  here 
it  is  that  the  crows  pay  regular  visits,  for  the  mussels  and 
soft-shell  clams  are  favorites  with  them.  Not  only  do  the 
empty  shells  lie  about  the  logs  high  on  the  beach,  where 
the  crows  have  taken  them,  but  they  are  also  found  far 
inland,  in  the  most  central  portions  of  the  island.  Some- 


34  South  Beach. 

times  in  the  midst  of  the  ferns  and  woodland  vegetation, 
when  you  least  expect  to  find  a  denizen  of  the  sea,  you 
come  upon  the  empty  valves  of  a  soft-shell  clam.  An 
interesting  feature  connected  with  the  life-history  of  this 
clam  is  the  effect  which  the  character  of  the  beach  exerts 
upon  the  shells.  On  the  sandy  shore,  where  the  resistance 
is  not  great  and  about  equal  in  all  directions,  the  shells  are 
thin  and  evenly  developed,  and  are  often  very  beautiful  in 
form  and  color;  but  on  the  rocky  shores  of  the  island, 
where  the  conditions  are  not  so  favorable,  the  shells  are 
distorted  to  fit  the  apertures  in  which  they  have  grown. 
On  the  peat  they  are  even  more  deformed  than  on  the 
stony  shore,  and  there  are  also  many  of  a  rounded  form, 
the  peat  acting  as  a  hard-pan,  preventing  them  from 
burying  deeply,  and  the  constant  scraping  along  its  surface 
of  drift  material  breaks  the  upper  ends  of  the  shells.  The 
ribbed  mussel  also  abounds  in  places  on  the  peat,  and  I 
have  sometimes  found  it  difficult  to  secure  perfect  speci- 
mens, owing  to  the  shells  being  broken  on  the  edges  from 
the  cause  already  mentioned. 

In  several  places  on  the  surface  of  the  peat  there  are 
evidences  of  ditches  having  been  dug  in  years  agone; 
perhaps  most  of  them  were  made  when  the  shore  was  a 
portion  of  the  meadow.  In  a  few  instances  they  may  be 
property  lines,  and  not  originally  constructed  for  the  more 
ordinary  purpose  of  drainage.  Now  they  are  washed  by 
the  waves,  the  "property"  is  gradually  being  devoured, 
and  they  serve  as  channels  wherein  the  sea  may  swash 
and  swirl  in  that  menacing  playfulness  that  is  often  its 
mood. 


South  Beach.  35 

Gradually  the  incoming  ride  forces  the  fishermen  who 
are  not  protected  by  rubber  boots,  or  who  have  not  dis- 
carded artificial  coverings  to  their  feet,  to  seek  the  drier 
up-shore,  and  it  is  then,  while  the  waves  break  in  the  cav- 
ernous recesses  that  they  have  worn  in  the  face  of  the  low 
cliffs,  that  the  little  fires  of  drift-wood  are  most  welcome. 

In  certain  localities  wild  beans  grow  in  abundance  on 
the  up-shore,  beyond  the  reach  of  the  tide,  and  in  Septem- 
ber a  great  number  may  be  gathered  in  a  short  time.  The 
Indians  picked  them  when  they  were  here,  and  cooked 
them  in  their  earthen  vessels,  and  I,  in  these  later  days, 
have  cooked  them  also.  They  have  a  curious  tang — a 
concentrated  bean  flavor — but  are  not  distasteful,  and  if  it 
were  not  for  Limas,  the  Valentines  and  the  other  cultivated 
varieties,  we  would  be  glad  to  get  the  wild  Phaseolus. 

At  the  commencement  of  the  Point,  and  in  places  be- 
fore you  get  so  far  along  the  beach,  the  shore  is  higher  at 
the  flood-tide  mark  than  the  contiguous  meadows,  and 
every  now  and  then  in  the  Spring  and  Fall,  and  occa- 
sionally during  storms  at  other  seasons,  the  waves  wash 
entirely  over  the  beach.  There  is  in  consequence  a  bank 
of  sand — a  sort  of  sandy  wave  that  gradually  rolls  over 
the  low-lying  meadows,  and  you  may  see  the  cedar-trees 
standing  dead,  and,  as  it  were,  knee-deep  in  the  sandy  in- 
undation. 

In  one  place  on  the  shore  there  stands  a  few  cedar  and 
cultivated  cherry  trees  in  a  row,  and  they  probably  mark 
the  site  of  an  old  fence,  but  all  other  evidences  of  the  line 
are  now  obliterated  by  the  sand.  Where  there  is  a  growth 
of  smilax,  small  cedars  or  any  other  thick  and  low  vegeta- 


36  South  Beach. 

tion,  it  will  for  a  short  time  protect  the  meadow  immedi- 
ately behind  it,  and  thus  occasionally  there  is  a  low  place 
on  the  upland  side  of  one  of  these  clumps,  where  the  cat- 
tails still  grow,  while  all  about  it  will  be  sand. 

The  line  is  generally  well  denned  between  this  barren 
waste  and  the  fertile  meadow,  and  close  to  its  threatening 
edge  grow  the  golden-rods  and  asters,  whose  roots  by  next 
year  will  probably  be  deeply  buried.  The  purple  and  the 
green  stemmed  stramoniums  find  the  sandy  wastes  to  their 
liking,  and  particularly  just  along  its  edge  often  grow  lux- 
uriantly. The  beach-grass  follows  the  sand,  and  the  little 
tufts  that  spring  from  the  subterranean  rhizoma  all  stand 
in  a  row  and  look  like  some  queer  feathery  little  soldiers 
marching  across  a  sandy  desert.  There  are  sometimes 
quite  complete  circles  described  about  these  clumps  of 
grass  that  stand  alone,  for  being  buffeted  about  by  the 
wind,  marks  are  left  in  the  sand  of  their  furthest  reach 
in  every  direction.  Some  days  the  wind  roars  across  the 
beach,  and  if  you  have  a  companion  you  must  needs  put 
your  head  close  to  his  and  shout  loudly  in  order  to  make 
him  hear.  Then  the  sand  is  lifted  off  the  up-shore,  where 
it  is  dry,  and  comes  flying  against  your  face,  and  it  does 
not  do  to  turn  the  eyes  in  the  direction  from  whence  it 
comes.  If  the  wind  is  from  the  north  or  northwest  the 
spray  from  the  waves  is  blown  seaward  again  in  great 
clouds,  the  gulls  clang  their  doleful  cries,  and  there  is  a 
grim  seriousness  in  the  scene  that  lives  long  in  the  memory. 
The  hills,  viewed  from  the  shore  across  the  intervening 
lowland,  give  you  the  impression  of  life,  as  if  somehow 
the  ridge  that  you  saw  in  the  distance  was  the  dorsal 


South  Beach.  37 

crest  of  some  monstrous  beast.  It  seems  to  be  quietly 
slumbering  there ;  to  be  dark  and  gray  in  Winter  and  in 
Spring  to  suddenly  change  its  color,  like  a  chameleon. 

The  wind  also  blows  the  sand  off  the  deposits  of  black 
and  slightly  cemented  iron-sand.  These  sheets  are  very 
thin  and  brittle,  and  it  is  seldom  that  one  of  any  consider- 
able size  can  be  lifted  by  the  hand  from  the  place  where 
it  was  formed. 

On  the  Point  there  are  many  cedars,  and  near  the  house 
once  stood  a  number  of  Lombardy  poplars ;  but  they  have 
nearly  all  been  cut  down.  It  is  said  that  the  wind  made 
too  much  noise  "roaring  in  their  branches;"  they  were  so 
high  and  lithe  that  they  responded  to  every  breeze,  and  so 
ailanthus  trees  were  planted  near  the  house  and  the  poplars 
felled.  There  are  some  very  old  bay  bushes  that  have 
grown  twelve  feet  high  and  proportionally  robust  in  trunk, 
and  under  them  the  fowls  congregate.  The  rooster  may 
crow  ever  so  lustily  on  the  Point,  and  only  be  answered  by 
the  dismal  cry  of  a  seagull,  for  all  the  tones  of  defiance 
from  the  mainland  come  attempered  by  the  breeze,  and  the 
chanticleers  themselves  would  not  know  what  to  think  of 
the  far-away  sound.  Even  the  European  or  English  spar- 
rows do  not  often  make  their  way  thither,  but  the  native 
song-sparrow  is  quite  domestic,  and  hops  about  among  the 
hen-coops  or  perches  on  their  tops. 

Years  ago  a  few  cultivated  blackberry  bushes  grew 
near  the  house,  and  when  in  fruit  they  were  tied  with  dang- 
ling shingles.  Some  poor  catbird,  in  passing  over  the 
Point,  always  found  these  few  bushes  most  tempting  and 
tarried  awhile — hence  the  shingles.  Rabbits,  too,  frequent 


38  South  Beach. 

the  vicinity,  and  in  Winter,  after  the  ground  is  covered  with 
snow,  their  tracks  are  innumerable.  But  one  rabbit  is  very 
industrious  in  track-making,  and  it  is  surprising  how  many 
places  he  has  a  mind  to  visit,  thus  leading  you  to  believe 
that  a  great  number  have  been  about  the  hen-coops. 

The  dunes  on  the  Point  run  parallel  and  near  to  the 
shore  on  the  south  side,  and  it  is  pleasing  to  walk  through 
the  little  vales  that  separate  them.  Often  the  evening  prim- 
roses are  conspicuous  there,  and  the  lowly  camphor  weed, 
the  prickly  pear  and  the  gray  and  sombre  hudsonia  find 
favored  situations.  But  I  should  not  call  the  hudsonia 
gray  and  sombre,  for  though  it  appears  during  eleven  months 
of  the  year  that  the  earth  has  brought  forth  a  grizzly  and 
shaggy  coat  that  seems  about  to  wither  and  die  away,  yet 
in  June  and  the  latter  part  of  May  it  decks  itself  in  yellow 
blossoms,  and  shows  that  latent  vitality  that  is  ever  so 
surprising  in  nature.  Syneda  graphica,  a  pretty  moth,  with 
marbled  wings  of  yellow,  of  gray  and  of  brown,  frequents 
these  patches  of  hudsonia  twice  a  year,  for  its  caterpillars 
probably  feed  upon  it,  and  Utetheisa  bella,  that  orange  and 
white  moth,  with  showy  pink  hind  wings,  also  flies  in  num- 
bers in  the  vicinity. 

The  beach-plums  are  a  great  attraction  to  a  shore  ram- 
bler, and  the  bay-berries  to  the  white-breasted  swallows 
that  congregate  on  the  Point  in  great  flocks.  It  is  believed 
to  be  a  weather  sign,  this  vast  gathering  of  birds,  for  it  is 
said  that  when  the  swallows  visit  the  bay-berry  bushes  a 
storm  is  near.  The  branches  of  the  bay  often  bend  under 
their  united  weight,  and  the  dark  glossy  blue  of  their  backs 
make  the  group  resplendent  in  color.  On  other  portions 


South  Beach.  39 

of  the  island  they  may,  in  the  late  Summer  and  Fall  days, 
be  seen  winging  their  way  shoreward  in  the  morning,  fly- 
ing irregularly  as  if  catching  insects  by  the  way,  and  at 
evening  the  flocks  return  northward.  It  is  nothing  for  a 
swallow  to  feed  on  the  bay-berries  by  the  sea  shore  and  fly 
far  inland  to  roost. 

You  would  hardly  suspect,  in  walking  along  the  sand, 
that  many  of  the  clumps  of  bay  bushes  were  connected 
one  with  another  by  subterranean  branches ;  but  when  this 
is  once  discovered  it  will  also  be  observed  how  they,  like 
the  tufts  of  beach  grass,  often  stand  in  line.  These  root- 
stocks  are  most  marvelously  contorted  and  interlaced,  and 
it  is  no  uncommon  matter  to  find  one  that  has  doubled 
completely  on  its  course.  They  are  covered  with  a  silvery 
yellow  bark,  like  that  at  the  base  of  the  white  birches,  and 
many  of  them  are  over  two  inches  in  diameter  and  extend 
a  number  of  feet,  giving  rise,  as  has  already  been  said,  to 
several  clumps  of  upright,  leaf-bearing  branches.  Thus  do 
the  bay  bushes  stand  together  in  the  sandy  waste,  and  as 
the  waves  eat  into  the  dunes,  those  that  are  furthest  inland 
support  for  a  little  while  the  outermost  member  of  their  group. 

There  is  a  very  thin  subsoil  of  a  blacker  hue  than  the 
sand,  and  it  is  the  highway  to  which  many  of  the  roots 
adhere.  When  the  ocean  covers  it  with  several  feet  of 
cast-up  shells  and  sand,  and  a  pit  has  been  dug  into  these 
several  layers,  then  does  the  narrow  black  seam  and  its 
accompanying  roots  show  most  plainly. 

Hawks  fly  about  slowly  over  the  dunes,  close  to  the 
tops  of  the  bushes.  Mice  are  ever  running  in  and  out 
among  the  tussocks  of  grass,  and  the  silent  winged  hawk 


40  South  Beach. 

steals  upon  them  unawares.  Then,  too,  the  great  blue 
herons  visit  the  unfrequented  meadows,  and  stand  sentinel 
there.  The  white  herons  used  to  come  also,  and  the  fann- 
ers and  fishermen  will  tell  you  about  them ;  but  now  they 
have  ceased  to  visit  the  shore,  or,  at  most,  are  a  great 
rarity.  Though  the  herons  are  imposing,  and  you  feel 
that  the  earth  still  has  a  great  bird  when  you  see  them  fly, 
yet  those  ever  busy,  cawing  crows,  that  meddle  with  the 
meadow  hen's  eggs,  and  incur  the  scoldings  of  the  marsh 
wrens,  are  of  more  general  interest.  It  is  said  that  they 
used  to  be  seen  in  vast  numbers  flying  to  their  roost  among 
the  cedars  on  Sandy  Hook.  That  in  its  day  was  one  of 
the  great  crow  roosts  of  the  vicinity. 

There  are  several  wrecks  along  the  beach,  not  those  of 
recent  years,  but  remains  of  old  crafts  that  went  to  pieces 
long  ago.  What  with  the  gradual  washing  away  of  the 
shore  and  the  ever-busy  sandmen,  who  land  their  schoon- 
ers and  sail  away  with  portions  of  the  Point,  these  wrecks 
have  been  exposed.  I  have  stood  in  wonderment  on  the 
old  water-worn  sides  of  one  of  these  hulks,  whose  iron 
bolts,  eroded  by  time,  encrusted  the  planking  for  many 
inches  about  their  heads  with  a  cement  of  iron,  of  pebbles 
and  of  sand ;  and  the  planking  itself  was  eaten  and  worn 
and  carved  by  the  sea.  Those  feathery  little  sea  plants 
that  seem  so  incapable  of  withstanding  the  force  of  the 
waves,  and  yet  are  really  so  tough  and  strong,  floated  in 
the  incoming  tide;  and  the  port-holes,  through  which 
murderous  cannon  had  once  shown  their  iron  faces,  looked 
peaceful  enough,  manned  by  barnacles  and  fringed  by  the 
soft,  waving  green  weeds. 


South  Beach.  41 

Perhaps  it  was  in  the  days  of  the  Revolution  when  this 
cruiser  went  ashore,  and  HYLER,  that  tormenter  of  the 
British  stationed  on  the  island,  was  responsible  for  her 
destruction.  But  it  is  just  as  likely  to  have  been  the  other 
way,  for  the  old  wreck  and  the  waves  can  tell  nothing  of 
the  fortunes  of  war.*  No  doubt  they  were  rough,  brawl- 
ing men  who  manned  this  war  vessel — men  who  lived  to 
eat,  to  drink,  to  fight  and  to  swear;  but  they  were  hardly 
tougher  customers  than  those  who  sail  the  sand-boats  ot 
to-day.  Great  brawny  fellows  are  many  of  these,  that  ab- 
sorb nearly  as  much  fresh  oxygen  and  sunlight  through 
their  skins  as  a  Hottentot,  for  they  wear  in  Summer  hardly 
more  clothes  than  the  African.  A  flannel  shirt  and  draw- 
ers, that  are  often  sieve-like  in  character,  complete  their 
apparel,  and,  bare-footed  and  bare-headed,  they  wheel  the 
sand  aboard  the  schooners,  and  for  each  voyage  they  re- 
ceive five  dollars.  The  captain,  perhaps,  is  slightly  fuller 
dressed  and  may  own  the  boat ;  if  not,  he  receives  seven 
dollars  per  trip.  At  half-tide  they  get  the  schooner  close 
in  to  the  shore,  and  place  wooden  horses  from  the  vessel's 
side  to  the  up-beach,  and  on  these  planks  are  laid.  It  is 
the  custom  for  the  captain,  if  he  works,  to  walk  off  first, 
with  his  wheelbarrow,  followed  by  the  crew,  and  when  the 
captain's  barrow  is  full  it  is  expected  that  each  man  will 
have  his  fully  laden  also,  so  that  he  may  precede  the  cap- 
tain up  the  plank.  Thus,  while  the  men  dig,  they  keep  an 
eye  to  the  skipper,  and  lag  or  hasten  as  the  exigencies  of 


*  What  remained  of  this  wreck  was  broken  up  in  the  storm  of  Oct- 
ober, 1890.  At  the  same  time  great  changes  were  wrought  in  the 
shifting  sand  of  the  beach. 


42  South  Beach. 

the  situation  seem  to  demand.  It  takes  them  commonly 
five  or  six  hours,  according  to  the  number  of  the  crew  and 
the  size  of  the  vessel,  to  complete  the  cargo. 

If  they  do  not  intend  to  pay  for  the  sand,  that  is,  have 
the  amount  collected  from  the  vessel  in  New  York,  where 
she  is  usually  registered,  the  crew  is  large,  and  they  lay 
several  planks  from  the  schooner  to  the  up-shore,  and  work 
with  the  greatest  diligence.  One  day  I  came  upon  a  crew 
of  this  description,  and  overheard  their  comments  as  I 
approached,  one  of  them  declaring  that  I  looked  remark- 
ably like  a  missionary.  A  member  of  the  group  had  a 
guilty  conscience,  and  I  heard  the  others  rallying  him  that 
I  had  come  to  spy  him  out.  As  it  was  late  in  the  Fall 
they  had  donned  their  coats,  but  that  same  party-colored, 
harlequin-like  attire  worn  in  Summer  was  still  in  vogue, 
and  one  long-legged,  thin  fellow,  with  vermilion  drawers 
and  black  coat,  was  particularly  conspicuous  as  he  walked 
up  the  plank. 

It  is  related  that  a  German,  who  lived  down  the  beach 
some  years  ago,  seeing  the  sand-boatmen  wheeling  his 
property  aboard,  went  to  collect  the  dollars  that  he  thought 
were  due  him.  But  the  sand-men  didn't  view  it  in  the 
same  way,  and,  calling  him  a  Dutchman,  with  flourishes, 
whacked  him  severely  with  their  shovels,  until  he  was  glad 
to  part  with  his  sand  and  their  blows. 

While  waiting  for  the  tide,  the  crews  that  have  finished 
loading  walk  about  the  beach,  split  wood  or  lie  on  the  sand, 
and  if  another  sloop  is  being  laden  nearby,  as  sometimes 
happens,  they  watch  the  proceeding  with  evident  interest. 
Then  do  they  talk  of  what  pleases  them  in  life  and  what 


South  Beach.  43 

they  regard  as  its  unpleasantries,  the  merits  ot  the  schoon- 
ers, the  captains  and  such  matters.  Above  all  do  they 
discuss  the  purchasing  power  of  the  five  dollars  they  are 
about  to  receive,  when  applied  to  the  market  value  of  beer 
and  whiskey.  A  flaxen-haired  giant  of  this  description, 
who  might  have  played  with  us  as  Otus  or  Ephialtes,  for 
his  muscles  stood  out  large  and  strong,  stood  on  the  beach 
one  day  and  lamented,  in  terms  that  would  fill  this  page 
with  dashes,  the  fact  that  he  was  minus  all  cash.  A  good 
specimen  of  anything — a  resplendent  flower,  or  even  a  big 
toad — is  pleasant  to  gaze  upon,  and  so  this  muscular  youth, 
with  his  vivacious  glances  and  rollicking  ways,  was  a  vig- 
orous scion  of  the  race,  and  admirable  for  his  hardihood. 

Such  characters,  no  doubt,  were  the  buccaneers  of  old 
days,  who  sailed  the  sea  about  the  Point  and  landed  on  the 
shore,  and  who,  it  is  said,  buried  money  on  the  banks  of 
Bass  Creek.  Perhaps  even  the  burly,  copper  nosed  Yan 
Yost  Vanderscamp  and  his  roistering  followers  from  the 
"  Wild  Goose,"  at  Communipaw,  landed  on  this  strand. 

About  eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  or  thirty,  men 
came  for  several  successive  years  at  Christmas  time,  and 
taking  sight  from  a  rock  exposed  at  low-water,  dug  a  long 
trench,  and  it  is  believed  that  they  finally  found  the  treas- 
ure, for  remnants  of  tarred  canvas  and  pieces  of  an  old 
box  were  discovered  in  the  trench  which  they  had  dug. 

Crooke's  Point  was  formerly  known  as  Brown's  Point, 
and  on  the  old  map  of  the  island,  already  referred  to,  it  is 
denominated  a  "  Beach  of  Sand."  Bass  Creek  is  laid 
down  on  this  and  subsequent  maps  as  of  considerable  pro- 
portions, but  now  only  vestiges  of  it  remain,  it  being  nearly 


44  South  Beach. 

obliterated  by  the  sandy  waves.  This  old  map  also  makes 
the  Point  about  three-eighths  of  a  mile  at  its  greatest 
breadth;  but  it  is  much  less  than  that  now,  and,  ere  long, 
it  will  be  "  Crooke's  Island,"  instead  of  Point.  The  waves 
have  left  but  a  narrow  neck  of  sand  only  two  or  three  yards 
wide  in  one  place,  and  over  this  they  often  wash  to  the 
reedy  meadows  that  lie  between  the  beach  and  the  Great 
Kill. 

There  are  several  lanes  that  lead  from  the  upland  across 
the  meadows  to  the  shore,  and  muddy,  swaley  roads  are 
they.  The  cattails  grow  high  at  their  sides,  and  nearer 
to  the  shore  the  taller  varieties  of  salt  meadow  grass.  One 
of  these  long,  straight  lanes,  ditched  on  either  side,  has 
always  left  a  pleasing  memory  picture,  with  the  several 
hummocks  over  which  it  passed,  where  stood  the  gnarled 
wind-torn  apple-trees,  and  where  grew  a  few  cabbages 
surrounded  by  a  fence.  I  never  saw  anybody  working 
there,  and  they  might  have  been  grown  by  the  sea-gods  or 
by  some  wild  man  of  the  moors,  for  all  that  appeared  to 
the  contrary.  From  my  seat  under  the  haystack  I  could 
see  a  lone  tree  in  the  distance,  that  bore  a  crow's  nest  in 
its  branches,  and  the  occasional  splashing  of  a  musk-rat  in 
the  creek  nearby,  the  chirp  of  a  song-sparrow  or  the 
squeak  of  a  meadow  mouse,  indicated  the  life  that  was  near. 
The  shad-frogs  are  common  on  the  meadows  at  times,  and 
the  easy-going  toad  also  comes  down  to  the  sea. 

Oft  have  I  watched  for  a  long  while  the  soldier-crabs, 
or  "  fiddlers,"  that  abound  along  the  creek.  I  take  it 
that  life  cannot  be  very  dull  to  them  mid  so  much  socia- 
bility, they  are  so  neighborly.  In  retreating  to  their  holes 


South  Beach.  45 

they  do  not  always  leave  the  big  claw  outermost,  but 
sometimes  go  in  with  that  claw  first.  They  feed  themselves 
with  the  little  claw,  often  picking  the  mud,  etc.,  from  off 
the  big  one  and  putting  it  into  their  mandibles.  Those 
with  small  claws  only,  feed  themselves  with  both,  first  with 
one  and  then  with  the  other,  and  seem  to  get  on  much 
faster  than  the  others.  At  some  seasons  there  is  no  quar- 
reling among  them,  though  they  will  lock  their  large  claws 
occasionally,  but  do  not  pinch.  Again,  in  the  Spring,  I 
have  seen  the  males  quite  belligerent,  many  of  them  with 
their  large  claws  interlocked,  and  so  enraged  that  I  have 
picked  them  up  without  their  loosening  their  hold.  Often, 
too,  have  I  put  several  individuals  into  one  hole  and  had 
them  retire,  nor  do  they  speedily  show  themselves  again, 
though  so  strangely  situated.  It  is  comical  to  see  them 
bring  their  long,  stalked  eyes  to  bear  upon  you.  "  We  are 
looking  at  you,"  they  seem  to  say. 

It  is  best  when  you  come  to  a  wet  place  in  the  meadow 
to  run  through  it  as  fast  as  you  can — to  jump  with  judg- 
ment, but  rapidly — for  "if  you  stop  to  look  after  each  step 
the  water  soaks  into  your  shoes.  The  meadow-grass  hides 
a  deal  of  moisture,  and  you  slump  into  a  depression  or  a  min- 
iature creek  before  you  are  aware.  Thus  do  I  remember  fall- 
ing in  to  a  ditch,  for  being  preoccupied,  looking  at  the  Hele- 
nium  flowers,  I  did  not  observe  what  the  rank  vegetation 
concealed  until  I  was  knee-deep  in  water.  How  surprised 
we  are  at  getting  suddenly  soused ;  one  would  think  that 
water  was  a  new  element  to  us. 

With  an  old  piece  of  bamboo  from  the  shore,  or  a  tree- 
branch  from  the  upland,  to  serve  as  a  jumping-pole,  you 


46  South  Beach. 

may  often  get  over  the  wet  places  in  the  lane  tolerably 
well ;  and  if,  mayhap,  your  shoes  get  wet,  run  in  the  grass 
awhile  on  some  dry  knoll  or  ridge,  for  the  grass  will  dry 
your  shoes  quite  speedily. 

I  remember  one  cold,  bright,  windy  day,  as  I  came 
along  the  beach,  seeing  one  of  the  Hermit's  dogs  tugging 
at  the  remains  of  an  old  white  horse  that  lay  on  the  sand. 
The  dog  stood  with  his  legs  braced  and  pulled  at  the 
tough,  hard  skin  with  all  of  his  strength,  but  when  he  saw 
me,  he  ran  across  the  bridge,  casting  an  occasional  sullen 
look  behind.  Then  there  was  a  general  barking,  and  fhe 
four  or  five  dogs  made  a  rush  for  me — came  bounding  up 
on  the  end  of  the  bridge,  but  I  greeted  them  as  a  friend, 
and  they  concluded  to  regard  me  in  that  light,  though  I  do 
not  think  their  first  intention  was  so  kindly.  Soon  I  had 
them  growling  at  one  another  as  each  tried  to  get  a  larger 
share  of  the  caresses  I  so  lavishly  bestowed. 

Near  by  there  was  a  stack  of  hay,  and  I  sat  myself 
down  on  its  sunny  side  to  eat  lunch  while  the  north  wind 
blew.  At  one  end  of  the  stack  there  was  a  second  white 
horse,  a  forlorn,  decrepit  animal,  and  probably  the  survivor 
of  some  hackman's  team,  whose  other  member  I  had  seen 
lying  dead.  As  I  ate  my  crackers  and  bread  and  orange  I 
could  hear  the  horse  grinding  his  provender,  and  when  I 
returned,  three  hours  later,  he  was  still  eating.  There  he 
stood,  with  his  eyes  half  closed,  and  slowly  munched  the 
hay,  while  the  north  wind  cast  his  shaggy  coat  into 
ridges. 

It  seems  useless  to  describe  natural  scenery  when  every 
one  may  see  it  if  they  will,  but  the  very  color  of  the  beach, 


South  Beach.  47 

swept  smooth  by  the  broom  of  the  ocean  every  twelve 
hours,  and  the  yellow-brown  tints  of  the  meadow-grass  in 
Autumn,  tempt  you  to  stop  and  to  gaze.  When  all  of  this 
is  spread  out  into  acres,  and  into  miles,  and  you  recline, 
half  dreaming,  on  a  dune,  and  the  pleasant  wonderment 
of  the  scene  steals  into  your  mind,  mayhap  the  tears  will 
stream  down  your  face.  Yet  you  know  not  why  the 
common  scene  affects  you  so,  and  that  you  should  feel 
that  sadness  that  seems  akin  to  heavenly  joy. 

"  It  is  a  view  of  delight,"  says  Lucretius.  "  to  stand  or 
walk  upon  the  shore-side,  and  to  see  a  ship  tossed  with 
tempest  upon  the  sea  .  .  .  "  ;  so,  likewise,  it  is  pleas- 
ant on  the  hazy  and  foggy  days  to  hear  the  horns  of  the 
unseen  steamers  far  out  over  the  water.  The  sound  comes 
booming  across  the  waves — like  some  giant  cow  mooing 
most  obstreperously  in  the  distance,  having  lost  her  way. 

At  night  the  beach  is  strange.  I  have  been  there  on 
dark,  cloudy  evenings,  such  as  follow  the  lowering  days 
that  come  late  in  the  Fall.  All  of  the  drift-timber  seems 
then  to  entangle  your  feet,  and  you  come  suddenly  face  to 
face  with  ghastly  pieces  of  wreck,  that  mimic  in  their 
strangeness  the  fantastic  forms  of  the  creatures  that 
inhabit  the  sea.  What  can  be  a  greater  wonder  than  the 
phosphorescent  glimmerings  that  bedeck  the  waves  as 
they  break  on  the  shore  ?  The  jellyfish,  that  die  at  the 
end  of  summer  and  disintegrate,  make  the  sand  luminous, 
and  at  every  step  you  see  your  glowing  tracks  behind  ; 
you  make  golden  foot-prints  in  the  sands,  as  if  indeed  some 
superhuman  being  had  passed  that  way.  The  glowing 
embers  of  the  fishermen's  fires  start  and  die  with  the 


48  South  Beach. 

breeze,  and  the  light-house  alternately  opens  and  shuts  its 
great  red  eye. 

I  have  had  one  of  the  larger  owls  follow  me  at  night 
for  half  a  mile  along  the  beach,  flying  in  circles  about  my 
head,  but  keeping  at  a  respectful  distance,  and  retaining  a 
sullen  silence.  When  I  have  come  to  the  bridge  I  have 
stolen  across  quietly,  for  the  Hermit's  dogs  lay  sleeping 
close  by;  and  then  gone  along  the  shore  as  near  to  the 
waves  and  as  far  from  the  drift-wood  as  possible,  as 
silently,  as  stealthily  as  the  owl  itself. 


BY  THE  RIPPLING  SEA. 


LL  day  I  walked  with  the  gentle  murmur  of  the  waves 
fi-4  in  my  ears  along  the  shore  of  Prince's  Bay  and  the 
•M-  A-  Great  Kill.  The  morning  had  dawned  sunny,  breezy 
and  cool,  and  it  was  one  of  those  August  days  that  herald  the 
Fall.  There  is  a  subtilty  in.  the  expression  of  such  a  day 
that  cannot  be  set  down  in  words.  You  feel,  but  cannot 
tell  why,  it  is  so  truly  Fall-like.  It  is  near  akin  to  yester- 
day, and,  again,  to-morrow  we  may  not  see  the  face  of 
Autumn  thus  plainly.  I  might  try  to  tell  wherein  the  dif- 
ference lies,  but  it  seems  to  be  doing  Nature  an  injustice  to 
coarsely  mention  the  soft  brooding  haze,  or  the  suspicion 
of  coolness  that  lingers  about  even  the  noon-tide  hours  ot 
such  a  day. 

The  golden  asters,  in  their  silky  coats,  were  along  the 
wood-paths  to  the  beach,  and  a  number  of  widely  branch- 
ing yellow  gerardias  had  taken  possession  of  a  little  open- 
ing in  the  trees.  Nature  loves  purple  and  gold,  and  with  the 
exception  of  white  and  the  omnipresent  green  of  Summer, 
they  are  her  favorite  colors. 

On  the  shore  I  plodded  along,  now  in  the  sand  and 
anon  among  the  low  shrubbery  on  the  up-beach.  The 


50  By  the  Rippling  Sea. 

wild  plums  were  in  all  shades  of  purple,  some  of  them  dark 
in  color,  with  a  bloom  on  their  surface ;  and  these  I  ate. 
It  is  a  pleasing  reality  to  see  the  plum  stretch  forth  its 
branches,  laden  with  fruit,  that  are  advertised  by  their  color, 
and  say,  as  it  were,  "  Eat  some,  please,  and  throw  away 
the  pits.  I  grew  them  for  you."  But  that  is  what  the 
plum  does,  and  so  I  gathered  the  lowest  fruit,  those  that 
grew  nearest  the  sand,  and  were,  therefore,  ripest,  and  dis- 
tributed the  pits  along  the  shore,  as  the  plum  had  bid  me 
do. 

All  day  long  the  crickets  sang  in  the  fields  or  ran  from 
under  the  planks  that  I  overturned  on  the  up-beach,  and 
now  and  then  a  Monarch  butterfly  or  a  hawk  came  sailing 
along  the  shore.  Several  green  herons  flew  from  the  rushes 
and  then  dropped,  as  it  were,  suddenly  into  them  again 
without  uttering  a  sound. 

Where  the  bay-berry  bushes  abounded,  on  a  stretch  of 
sand,  there  were  countless  numbers  of  white-breasted  swal- 
lows, and  between  two  posts  of  a  fence,  on  the  topmost  wire, 
I  counted  thirty  birds,  and  the  second  and  third  wires  were 
equally  laden.  The  ground  beneath  the  wires,  and  on 
the  tops  of  the  fence  posts,  were  bestrewn  with  the  half- 
digested  bay  berries. 

The  sandpipers,  running  along  by  the  incoming  waves, 
had  more  confidence  in  me  than  I  thought  was  right.  I 
felt  as  if  they  ought  to  be  shoon  away,  lest  by  my  harm- 
lessness  I  might  lead  them  to  suppose  that  all  men  would 
be  kind  to  them.  They  are  so  intent  upon  hunting  sand- 
fleas  that  they  are  easily  hunted  themselves,  and  the  sand- 
fleas  have  cause  to  rejoice  at  the  banging  of  the  guns. 


By  the  Rippling  Sea.  51 

On  a  stretch  of  the  beach  two  sandpipers  kept  each 
other  company.  One  of  them  was  a  sprightly,  industrious 
individual,  that  engaged  himself  in  hunting  operations,  and 
the  other,  a  broken-legged  bird,  with  the  injured  member 
painfully  discommoding  every  motion.  Often  it  caught  in 
the  cast-up  sea-weed  and  caused  him  to  stumble.  Never- 
theless he  caught  a  few  fleas,  but  was  forced  now  and  then 
to  rest,  and  would  stand  motionless  for  a  time,  while  his 
companion  waged  war  on  the  sand-hoppers. 

A  few  small  brooks  came  down  to  the  beach,  some  oi 
them  losing  their  substance  before  they  got  across  the 
sand ;  and  in  one  place  a  rather  languid  spring  issued  from 
the  base  of  the  cliff.  A  tin  can,  perched  on  the  top  of  a 
stake  nearby,  served  as  a  means  of  introduction  between 
us. 

The  red  cliffs  of  drift  material  were  particularly  red  after 
the  soaking  rain,  and  additional  trees  had  recently  fallen 
to  the  shore.  I  recognized  a  post-oak,  under  which  I  had 
sat  some  years  back,  now  dead  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff. 
Every  now  and  then  the  earth  falls  from  the  trees  growing 
along  the  bank,  and  occasionally  one  of  them  rolls  to  the 
sand  below.  It  produces  a  feeling  of  sadness  to  see  the 
bluff  falling  away  and  the  waves  ever  eating  into  the  up- 
land. It  seems  as  if  the  ocean  was  taking  what  it  did 
not  own,  that  some  injustice  was  being  perpetrated,  and 
that  the  cedars,  oaks  and  other  trees  that  come  tumbling 
to  the  shore,  owe  their  death  to  some  powerful  enemy,  that 
works  most  stealthily  even  in  the  quiet  days  of  Summer 
sunshine. 

The  cliffs  extend  along  the  shore   for  several  miles, 


52  By  the  Rippling  Sea. 

though  they  are  only  high  and  perpendicular  for  a  short 
distance,  and,  indeed,  the  low  ones,  that  are  not  so  steep, 
and  are  clothed  with  golden-rods,  bay-berry  bushes  and 
asters,  are  much  more  companionable.  There  was  a  small 
cleft,  or  bight,  in  the  cliff  that  opened  to  the  southwest 
and  met  at  right  angles  to  the  shore.  It  was  so  narrow 
that  someone  had  laid  a  short  beam  from  side  to  side  and 
used  it  as  a  seat,  from  whence  they  might  look  along  the 
shore  and  the  sea.  The  view  was  bounded  by  a  projecting 
cliff  in  the  distance,  where  leaned  some  tottering  trees. 
The  white-breasted  swallows  skimmed  the  surface  of  the 
bay,  now  and  then  dipping  as  they  flew,  and  a  kingfisher 
sounded  his  rattle.  The  beach  was  covered  with  innumer- 
able little  stones,  and  the  inrush  and  outgo  of  the  waves 
caused  them  to  roll,  and  the  sound  of  their  striking  against 
one  another  was  added  to  that  produced  by  the  sea  itself. 
There  was  not  a  sign  of  a  human  habitation  from  the 
bight,  or  anything  to  remind  me  that  mine  were  not  the 
only  footprints  ever  made  in  the  sand.  The  world  of  men 
seemed  far  away,  and  the  hours  were  as  peaceful  as  if  I 
had  found  one  of  the  by-paths  leading  to  the  Garden  of 
Eden. 

A  pear-tree  leaned  over  the  bank  by  the  shore  and 
cast  its  fruit  down  the  slope  to  the  sand,  and  there  were 
also  seedling  apple-trees  that  gave  me  and  the  crickets  of 
their  abundance.  At  one  place  a  small  rat  scampered 
away,  and  anon  I  passed  by  a  sleeping  dog  on  the  sand, 
so  silently  that  he  he  did  not  know  that  any  one  was 
near. 

As  I  approached  a  small  house  by  the  shore,  a  frisky, 


By  the  Rippling  Sea.  53 

long-haired  dog  came  bounding  across  the  beach,  and  after 
the  preliminaries  indispensable  to  a  proper  acquaintance 
were  gone  through  with,  he  commenced  to  bark  and  jump 
about  in  a  most  excited  way.  1  was  at  a  loss  to  know 
what  ailed  him  and  bid  him  be  still,  but  could  only  enforce 
a  momentary  quiet,  and  directly  he  was  barking  as  before. 
Soon  he  seized  my  stick  in  his  teeth  and  I  realized  what 
he  wanted,  and  securing  a  barrel  hoop  flung  it  down  the 
beach  many  times,  for  he  merely  wished  to  play. 

Two  small  pigs  looked  knowingly  from  their  pen  placed 
on  the  sand  at  the  foot  of  the  bank,  and  I  made  them  put 
their  light  brown  eyes  close  to  one  of  the  cracks  between  the 
boards,  that  I  might  look  them  fairly  in  the  face.  I  ob- 
served where  they  had  previously  made  their  escape  by 
burrowing  in  the  soft  sand,  and  several  boards  and  stakes 
had  been  used  to  make  their  prison  more  secure. 

Two  ponds  stretched  back  from  the  shore,  one  ot  them 
profaned  by  a  hotel  on  its  border,  but  the  other  remaining  in 
all  the  glory  of  weedy  margins  and  tree-covered  banks. 
Near  this  pond  I  tarried  awhile,  for  a  wild  honeysuckle  had 
burst  forth  again  in  its  June-time  array  of  flowers,  and  a 
Carolina  wren  was  chattering  in  the  trees.  Hibiscus 
flowers  were  along  the  pond-border,  and  also  a  tall,  wav- 
ing grass,  that  in  ripening  had  turned  to  a  beautiful  purple- 
green. 

At  the  upper  end  of  the  pond,  hidden  in  the  trees,  was 
an  old  homestead,  with  its  roof  fallen  in,  a  ruined  chimney, 
and  a  few  of  those  hardy  flowers  and  shrubs  growing 
round  about,  without  which  no  old  house  seems  complete. 
For  years  only  one  or  two  rooms  appeared  to  be  occupied 


54  By  the  Rippling  Sea. 

in  this  forlorn  old  mansion — only  one  or  two  of  its  win- 
dows let  in  the  sun.  The  crane  hung  in  the  chimney, 
that  was  built  with  the  most  ancient  part  of  the  dwelling, 
and  everything  about  the  house  seemed  to  look  to  the 
past — like  an  old  man  who  sits  by  the  fire  and  broods  on 
the  memory  of  bygone  days. 

The  most  joyous  thing  I  ever  saw  near  the  old  house 
were  the  daffodils  in  Spring,  and  the  most  industrious  was 
a  colony  of  wasps  in  the  old  cherry  tree. 

Perhaps  the  man  who  lived  in  this  ancient  dwelling 
was  as  proud  as  the  turkey-gobbler  that  strutted  about 
among  the  box  bushes.  It  certainly  was  a  fine  bird,  and 
perhaps  he  was  an  equally  fine  man,  but  Nature  had  not 
decked  him  out  as  gaily  as  she  had  the  gobbler.  Great 
folds  of  skin,  of  red,  blue,  and  pink,  blended  together  in  a 
marvelous  way,  and  with  the  flashing  dark  eyes.  The 
pendant  from  the  bill,  reaching  the  breast,  was  equally 
gorgeous,  and  the  feathers,  black  and  glossy.  Indeed,  the 
turkey  is  a  fashionable  bird  in  feathers  as  well  as  without, 
and  would  do  to  walk  the  avenues,  arrayed  in  his  splendid 
attire,  with  those  who  parade  for  show. 

But  now  the  dwelling  was  deserted,  and  the  barn  door 
hung  wide  on  its  hinges.  The  turkeys  were  gone;  and  the 
open  windows  let  in  the  rain.  The  roof  of  the  older 
portion  of  the  house  had  fallen  further  away  from  the  more 
recent  addition,  though  it  still  clung  to  the  chimney  where 
once  hung  the  crane.  A  tree-toad  pressed  close  to  a 
mossy  shingle,  and  was  bathed  in  the  afternoon  sun,  and 
beneath  the  tottering  roof  the  spotted  wasps  had  built  one 
of  their  jug-like  nests.  The  long  branches  of  the  matri- 


By  the  Rippling  Sea.  55 

mony  bush,  hidden  for  a  time  from  the  light,  finally  sought 
it  again,  and  pierced  the  boards  near  the  eaves ;  and  the 
catnip  growing  at  the  chimney's  base  shed  a  pleasant  odor 
about  the  crumbling  pile. 

Within  was  an  old  sofa,  a  rush-bottomed  chair  tied 
together  with  a  rope,  and  over  the  floor  a  multitude  of 
papers  and  a  number  of  religious  books  and  pamphlets. 
One  of  these  was  on  the  proper  mode  of  spending  the 
Sabbath,  but  I  could  find  nothing  therein  about  wandering 
afield  alone.  That  was  not  the  religious  way,  though  it  is 
eminently  a  religious  way  of  spending  the  Sabbath.  It 
contained  a  number  of  anecdotes  concerning  barns  struck 
by  lightning  because  they  sheltered  hay  gathered  on 
Sunday,  but  I  saw  no  mention  of  the  church  near  my 
home  that  has  been  twice  thus  visited,  though  its  bell  has 
tolled  regularly  every  Sabbath  day. 

The  attic  contained  several  articles  left  there  by  a  still 
older  tenant — a  pair  of  hatchels  for  separating  the  fibrous 
parts  of  hemp  or  flax,  and  the  account-books  of  James  La- 
Forge,  who  carried  on  the  business  of  a  smith  in  the  first  years 
of  the  century.  A  careful  inspection  of  his  books,  covering 
a  space  of  ten  years,  revealed  that  he  had  served  in  his 
trade  one  hundred  and  nineteen  different  persons,  thirty- 
eight  of  them,  likehimself,  bearing  a  name  of  Huguenot 
origin.  It  was  interesting  to  read  a  page  of  the  domestic 
affairs  of  many  of  these  worthies  who  figure  in  the  records 
of  the  county ;  to  see  how  many  horses  they  had  shod  in 
a  year,  and  the  bolts,  and  bars,  and  chains,  that  were 
made  or  mended  for  them.  Placed  between  the  leaves 
of  one  of  these  old  volumes  was  an  interesting  bill  of  items 


56  By  the  Rippling  Sea. 

purchased  at  the  country  store,  and  also  one  for  twenty-six 
shad  at  nine  cents  each. 

Nature  looked  joyous  outside  through  the  open  win- 
dow, and  the  ruddy-cheeked  apples  glowed  on  the  tree, 
but  within  was  a  spirit  of  sadness  that  brooded  over  all 
like  a  heavy  vapor.  If  you  moved  a  door  its  creaking 
sounded  past,  as  if  it  had  wearied  with  the  years,  and  I 
know  not  what  charm  it  would  have  taken  to  have  made 
the  rooms  seem  glad  again,  unless  it  might  have  been  the 
laugh  of  a  little  child  or  the  gambols  of  a  kitten. 


THE  OLD  STONE  HOUSE. 


|Y  friend  and  I  walked  along  the  lane.  It  had 
been  used  for  more  than  a  hundred  years,  and 
the  constant  wear  of  the  wheels,  and  the  ever 
washing  of  the  rain,  had  made  it  a  wide  rut,  the  width  of  a 
wagon.  Little  streams  of  water  trickled  in  the  soft  earth 
where  the  wheels  had  made  their  last  impressions;  the 
woods  skirted  one  side,  and  a  straggling  hedge,  with  some 
large  trees,  and  the  broad  open  fields  the  other.  The  mes- 
sages, the  letters  and  the  news,  the  tidings  of  war  and  of 
peace  that  have  been  borne  along  the  lane !  The  limbs 
of  the  trees  overshadow  it,  the  alder  catkins  dangle  by  its 
side,  and  in  Spring,  the  first  little  blue  butterflies— those 
blossoms  with  wings — flutter  along  it,  as  if  they  too  were 
touched  by  the  dreams  that  hover  with  them  in  the  lane. 

As  we  walked  silently  on,  we  stepped  backward  in 
time,  we  heard  the  foxes  barking,  and  the  sound  of  the  first 
tree  falling.  We  saw  Daniel  Lake  hurrying  to  his  home 
with  his  deed  patent  of  the  untilled  land.  We  saw  his 
little  children,  beheld  them  playing  in  the  lane,  and  we 
followed  old  Daniel  to  his  grave,  and  stood  mourners  with 
the  family  there.  Just  as  you  turn  the  leaves  of  a  book 


58  The  Old  Stone  House. 

and  the  scenes  of  life  and  of  death  that  are  written  there 
are  pictured  to  you,  so  the  old  lane  and  the  fields  brought 
a  thousand  impressions  that  made  us  laugh  and  weep  in 
turn.  The  songs  of  Summer,  the  wind  rustling  in  the  trees, 
the  wind  again  in  Winter,  and  all  the  fields  white  with 
snow,  and  that  ever  dawning  and  setting  of  the  sun. 

All  of  this  came  to  us,  and  we  trembled  as  we  entered 
the  old  gate  between  the  giant  poplars  at  the  end  of  the 
lane,  and  stood  by  the  thick  stone  walls  of  the  house.  It 
was  deserted  now ;  no  face  watched  at  the  window,  only 
our  own  reflections  peered  back  upon  us  like  a  visual  echo, 
as  we  looked  on  the  little  square  panes. 

We  knocked  at  the  door;  perhaps  the  shade  of  Mr. 
Moorewood,  the  last  occupant,  might  be  lingering  there, 
engaged  in  reverie,  so  we  knocked  hard  on  the  door  with 
the  knocker.  A  sound  gently  prepares  you  for  a  presence, 
and  we  hoped  not  to  intrude  too  abruptly  upon  his 
Sabbath  meditations. 

There  is  a  sadness  in  beholding  the  rooms  once  thought 
so  homelike  given  over  to  solitude  and  dampness.  How 
seldom  we  picture  .our  own  home  as  deserted  forever,  and 
the  fire  gone  out,  for  the  pent-up  fire  has  a  warm,  bright 
soul  of  its  own.  The  sun  shining  in  at  the  window,  and 
even  the  singing  of  the  birds  without,  seem  strange  in  the 
deserted  room.  A  man's  garments  found  in  a  field  cause 
you  to  start.  So  any  artificial  thing  without  its  counter- 
part is  a  surprise ;  a  road  without  vehicles  and  a  house 
without  tenants  alike  impress  us  with  the  sense  of  incom- 
pletenesss. 

No  wonder,   then,   that  we  stood  before   the   hearth 


The  Old  Stone  House.  59 

without  speaking ;  no  wonder  that  we  opened  the  cup- 
board doors  gently,  lest  their  creaking  in  some  way  might 
be  a  rude  interruption.  Empty  bottles  stood  on  the 
shelves,  a  straw  hat  lay  there  also,  and  over  all  had  settled 
a  fine  dust  that  had  been  brought  by  the  vagrant  wind. 

We  got  down  on  our  knees  and  measured  the  broad 
boards  of  the  floor  with  a  rule,  inspected  the  front  door, 
remarkable  for  its  massive  solidity,  and  made  in  two  parts, 
as  is  now  again  the  fashion.  Thus  we  wandered  from 
room  to  room,  and  learned  the  plan  of  the  structure,  that 
must  have  been  so  deeply  imprinted  in  the  minds  of  its 
many  former  occupants,  now  in  their  graves  in  the  field. 
Indeed,  it  is  a  curious  knowledge  we  have  of  our  homes ; 
like  the  rabbit's  information  of  the  clover  in  the  field, 
there  are  many  things  that  can  be  known  only  to  us. 

So  the  house  was  strange,  and  the  tones  of  our  voices 
were  new  to  its  walls.  The  sigh  of  the  wind  was  the  same 
as  we  had  heard  elsewhere,  and  even  the  outlooks  reminded 
us  of  similar  scenes  miles  away.  But  we  lingered  at  the 
little  window  that  looked  between  the  poplars,  down  the 
lane.  It  was  one  of  those  garden  views  wherein  the 
blending  of  nature  with  the  artificial  has  made  a  pleasing 
result.  Perhaps  it  was  strengthened  by  the  knowledge  of 
antiquity,  by  the  old  fence,  the  poplars  falling  to  decay, 
and  by  the  rank,  tall  weeds  along  the  hedge,  that  seemed 
to  bespeak  a  strong  vitality  still,  though  their  stems  were 
dead  from  the  cold. 

Is  it  any  wonder  that  we  searched  the  garret  well  ?  for 
the  greatest  treasures  of  an  old  house  are  most  often  there. 
The  bottles  and  straw  hats  may  be  kept  in  the  cupboard 


60  The  Old  Stone  House. 

down  stairs,  but  the  general  litter  of  the  garret  tells  more 
of  the  family  history  than  all  the  other  rooms  combined. 
The  garret  is  the  private  museum  of  the  homestead,  and  if 
you  can  see  it  in  all  its  completeness  you  will  know  how 
long  the  family  have  dwelt  in  the  mansion.  The  parlor 
makes  its  contributions  from  time  to  time,  and  so  keeps 
fresh  and  new ;  the  kitchen  sends  its  old  pots  and  pans, 
and  many  papers  are  piled  there  that  are  thought  too 
interesting  to  be  thrown  away,  but  which  lie  unread  and 
forgotten. 

So  we  searched  diligently  in  the  litter ;  the  floor  was 
strewn  with  scores  of  copies  of  The  Albion,  many  of  them 
stained  with  yellow  lines  by  the  rain  that  had  beaten  in 
through  the  roof,  and  all  of  them  imbrowned  by  time.  We 
tuined  their  pages — read  of  the  cholera  in  England  and 
Scotland,  of  the  last  illness  of  Goethe,  and  perused  the 
reviews  of  the  latest  novels.  There  is  nothing  that  loses  so 
much  of  its  pith  with  the  years  as  political  discussions  and 
events.  We  cannot  feel  all  the  glow  of  the  times.  We 
reverence  the  story-teller,  for  it  is  the  clothing  in  words 
that  so  often  makes  one  fact,  or  the  life  of  one  man,  stand 
out  more  noticeably  in  the  past  than  another.  The  old 
news  in  the  Albion  is  read  in  a  different  sense  from  that 
which  was  first  intended ;  we  view  it  now  as  we  would  the 
account  of  the  war  of  Jnisthona.  The  "  total  overthrow 
and  utter  prostration  of  the  revolutionists  "  has  often  been 
told,  and  that  Sheriff  Dugan  restored  order  after  Mr. 
McKenzie  and  Mr.  Shannon  were  pelted  with  eggs  is  not 
new  to  history. 

Turning  the  pages,  we  came  to  a  piece  of  purple  silk 


The  Old  Stone  House.  61 

laid  between  the  leaves,  that  had  probably  formed  a  part 
of  Miss  Moorewood's  dress,  and  copy-books  on  the  floor 
showed  samples  of  her  writing.  Family  letters  lay  in  this 
old  pile,  accompanied  by  used  checks  returned  by  the 
bank.  These  letters  remind  you  in  tone  of  those  written 
yesterday,  of  those  written  to  you  by  your  friend.  Their 
messages  are  the  same.  It  needs  but  the  change  of  signa- 
tures, with  the  change  of  years,  for  the  general  truths  are 
there.  They  show  the  ironbound  fate  that  must  ever  hold 
us.  It  was  these  documents,  now  so  brown  and  stained 
by  the  weather,  that  they  read  with  eager  eyes  walking  in 
the  lane.  They  gathered  by  the  hearth  or  in  the  hall,  and 
the  letter  was  read  aloud ;  it  was  treasured,  stored  in  the 
attic,  and  now  is  pulled  from  its  hiding. 

We  find  a  receipt,  dated  July,  1836,  for  one  hundred 
and  seventeen  dollars,  for  rent,  perhaps  for  this  same  old 
house ;  and  also  a  detailed  account  of  the  letters  sent  by 
Mr.  Moorewood  in  1827.  The  diligent  correspondent 
spent  as  much  for  postage  and  wax  and  paper  in  those 
days  as  he  did  for  the  taxes  or  rent  of  his  broad  acres. 

While  I  turned  the  pile  my  friend  climbed  through  the 
skylight  and  sat  in  the  sun,  ever  and  anon  calling  to  me 
how  beautiful  the  meadows  looked  on  this  bright  day.  "  I 
can  hear  you  scratching,  scratching  down  there,  like  a 
mouse  in  the  wall,"  he  shouted,  and,  poking  his  head  into 
the  garret,  inspected  my  progress,  and  then  turned  away 
to  his  vision  of  fair  meadows  again. 

Still  I  burrowed  on,  now  upturning  a  certificate  stating 
that  Mr.  Moorewood  had  learned  surveying  in  Halifax, 
and  now  a  number  of  Eugene  Sue's  novel,  "  The  Wander- 


62  The  Old  Stone  House. 

ing  Jew."  A  mutilated  copy  of  "  Lalla  Rookh,"  and  the 
"  Memoirs  of  My  Youth,"  that  book  of  sweet  confidence, 
by  Lamartine.  As  I  turn  the  pages,  I  find  that  the  pas- 
sages here  and  there  have  been  marked — marked  by  some 
one  living  in  this  old  house — and  when  Lamartine  describes 
so  beautifully  his  father  reading  Tasso  aloud  by  the  fire, 
when  the  doors  of  the  little  house  of  Milly  were  closed  and 
the  dog  barked  in  the  courtyard,  then  this  admiring  hand 
writes  on  the  margin,  "  What  can  surpass  domestic  joys  ?  " 

Yes,  yes,  kind  annotator,  but  do  not  think  me  un- 
friendly for  speaking  out  your  secret  mind,  for  it  is  your 
own  house  of  Milly,  with  its  fireplace,  its  thick  beams 
blackened  by  the  smoke,  and  its  domestic  joys,  of  which 
we  fain  would  speak,  though  so  much  now  is  left  to  fancy 
alone. 

My  friend  still  sat  upon  the  roof,  and,  climbing  by  his 
side,  we  looked  across  the  bright  meadows  out  to  the  sea. 
The  seashore  formed  a  glistening  line,  and  the  ships  crept 
along  so  slowly  in  the  distance  that  they  seemed  to  be 
fixtures  there,  like  some  great  sea  creatures  that  were 
content  to  idly  sun  themselves.  So  we  sat  together  and 
talked,  and  Nature  seemed  very  kind  to  us.  What  can  be 
more  pleasing  than  the  full  confidence  in  the  sincerity 
of  your  friend  ?  A  man's  best  nature,  as  well  as  his  worst, 
is  the  development  of  mutual  intercourse. 

We  climbed  again  through  the  skylight,  to  the  old 
trunk,  and  so  to  the  floor,  and  once  more  explored  the 
rooms.  When  we  got  outside  we  viewed  the  house  from 
different  points,  for  each  aspect  gave  a  slightly  different 
impression.  Houses,  like  individuals,  seem  to  be  stem  or 


The  Old  Stone  House.  63 

mild,  seem  to  be  happy  or  sorrowful,  and  no  doubt  they 
affect  the  character  of  those  who  live  within  their  walls. 

As  we  walked  away  across  the  fields  we  lingered,  and 
now  and  then  cast  our  looks  behind.  There  was  the  long, 
low  house,  with  the  broad  salt  meadows  coming  close  to 
its  walls.  Its  trees,  its  barn,  and  the  family  grave-yard, 
seemed  all  in  keeping,  as  if  Nature  herself  had  said,  "If 
man  must  live  here,  build  the  house  this  way,"  and  they 
had  followed  her  plan.  She  is  most  kind  to  these  low, 
rambling,  rural  houses,  and  sheds  about  them  a  homelike 
aspect.  Indeed,  it  is  very  hard  to  build  a  large,  preten- 
tious mansion  that  will  be  thoroughly  in  accord  with  the 
scene.  Nature  appears  overtaxed  with  it,  and  the  windows 
do  not  peep  out  the  same  homelike  rays.  The  green 
spreading  lawns,  with  their  display  of  flowers  in  mathe- 
matically exact  beds,  all  representing  a  great  expenditure, 
do  not  produce  a  more  pleasing  impression  than  the  little 
gardens  with  their  hardy  flowers  and  vegetables  side  by 
side,  and  maybe  the  red  apples,  in  Autumn,  lying  promis- 
cuously over  the  ground. 


TENANTS. 


a  LARGE  dwelling  stood  empty  in  the  Clove  valley 
for  many  years,  save  for  the  natural  tenantry  that 
every  old  house  and  barn  is  bound  to  receive. 
Wasps,  bats,  owls  and  their  kindred  only  respect  the  rights 
ofpreoccupancy,  and  any  vacant  pla.ce  is  theirs  if  they  wi?h 
it  and  are  strong  enough  to  retain  their  particular  nooks  and 
crannies.  Thus  this  old  house  and  neighboring  out-build- 
ings were  fully  occupied.  Woodpeckers  had  bored  holes 
into  the  piazza,  posts  and  house-side,  a  swarm  of  honey 
bees  lived  in  the  chimney,  a  colony  of  Carolina  bats  in 
the  barn,  and  in  Spring  a  phoebe  bird  built  her  nest  under 
its  eaves. 

An  old  German  and  his  wife  occupied  the  gate-house, 
and  their  cows  cropped  the  grass  on  the  hill-side  or  stood 
in  their  stalls  in  the  barn.  Horses  were  taken  to  board  in 
Summer,  and  the  old  man  spent  his  days  looking  after 
them  and  the  cows,  repairing  the  fence  to  keep  them  in,  or 
in  sallying  forth  on  an  anxious  journey  in  quest  of  some 
restless  Bucephalus  who,  breaking  the  fence,  had  cantered 
away. 

In  rambling  about  the  premises,  I  often  met  the  old 


Tenants.  65 

man,  who  had  all  the  garrulity  of  age,  and  would  talk  to 
me  by  the  hour  of  the  beasts  that  tenanted  the  mansion 
and  of  that  parade  of  interesting  items  that  nature,  like  a 
well-conducted  newspaper,  spreads  before  us  day  by  day. 
Then,  again,  he  would  tell  of  his  misfortunes,  how  he  had 
been  running  up  and  down  the  roads,  this  way  and  that, 
searching  for  an  escaped  horse,  and,  finally  growing  tired, 
he  had  to  be  brought  home  in  a  wagon,  for  he  was  an  old 
man  now. 

Often  I  stood  at  a  distance  and  watched  him  chop 
wood  under  the  shed  near  his  dwelling,  or  follow,  with 
bowed  head,  the  narrow  path  that  led  from  his  door  to  the 
barn.  The  path  wound  up  the  hill  under  the  trees  and 
back  of  the  mansion,  and  nearby  a  dog  was  chained  to 
his  house,  and  would  gyrate  and  yelp  most  piteously  when 
he  saw  the  old  man  passing  by. 

One  Summer  two  calves  were  confined  for  a  time  in 
the  corner  of  the  orchard  fence,  near  the  path,  and  their 
little  anxious  heads  were  thrust  through  the  paling  at 
whomsoever  passed  that  way.  The  old  man  said  "  they 
would  be  three  days  old  to-morrow,"  so  anxious  was  he  to 
have  them  grow  as  fast  as  possible,  to  have  a  few  more 
hairs  on  their  diminutive  bodies.  One  of  them  endeavored 
to  swallow  my  hand  in  my  efforts  to  discover  the  condi- 
tion of  its  teeth,  but  that  member,  much  to  the  disappoint- 
ment of  the  calf,  came  away  with  me. 

Near  the  path  stood  a  broad-spreading  hemlock,  also 
several  maples  and  some  other  trees,  and  beneath  their 
shade  several  seats  had  been  constructed.  It  was  here 
that  the  old  man  most  often  sat  and  talked,  and  on  Summer 


66  Tenants. 

days  watched  the  bees  fly  from  the  chimney.  He  had 
placed  a  flagstone  over  the  flue  which  they  occupied,  and 
never  disturbed  them,  for  his  father  had  kept  bees  in  Ger- 
many, and  these  flying  from  the  chimney  brought  to  his 
mind  the  scenes  of  his  boyhood.  He  delighted  to  tell  me 
how  his  father  managed  his  straw  hives,  and  how  many 
he  had,  and  then,  mayhap,  we  would  inspect  the  large 
paper  nests  that  the  spotted  wasps  were  ever  building  some- 
where about  the  deserted  mansion. 

One  year  one  of  these  structures  was  fastened  to  the 
grape  arbor  by  the  house-side,  and  was  protected  by  its 
eaves.  The  entrance  to  the  nest  was  about  two  inches 
from  the  bottom,  and  the  old  man  wished  me  to  take  it, 
stop  up  the  hole  at  night,  when  the  wasps  were  in,  and 
take  it  away  if  I  desired.  Then  he  fell  to  telling  me  how 
kind  the  wasps  were,  how  they  minded  their  own  business, 
and  if  people  would  only  let  them  alone  they  would  never 
be  stung.  We  drew  close  to  the  nest  and  watched  the 
workers  busily  engaged  on  its  top  in  making  it  larger,  for 
they  work  most  industriously  as  long  as  the  warm  weather 
lasts,  never  dreaming,  apparently,  that  Summer  will  not  be 
always,  but  die  finally  of  the  cold,  leaving  young  in  various 
stages  of  growth  in  the  cells  within. 

The  old  man  was  particularly  loquacious  on  the  subject 
of  speculators;  he  who  lived  so  quietly  wished  to  hear  the 
clangings  of  the  outer  world,  but  he  was  mistrustful,  for, 
like  St.  Pierre,  he  considered  himself  taught  by  calamity. 
"Ah!"  he  would  say,  "  wasn't  I  hit  on  the  head  by  a  fel- 
low at  Four  Corners,  and  what  a  lot  of  trouble  I  had  over 
it.  I  went  to  the  justice's  twice  and  then  to  Richmond, 


Tenants.  67 

and  finally  the  man  was  acquitted,  though  indicted  by  the 
grand  jury  for  assault  with  intent  to  kill." 

Thus  would  we  sit  under  the  trees  and  discourse  on 
the  law,  the  speculators,  the  railroads  and  the  bees,  and  the 
old  man  would  call  me  his  "  dear  friend,"  would  take  me 
by  the  sleeve,  and  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder  and  talk 
most  earnestly.  He  would  walk  away  as  if  to  depart,  and 
then  return  and  sit  by  my  side  again.  He  had  not  lived 
in  vain,  for  he  was  content  to  die — had  a  philosophical 
desperation;  he  saw  that  he  must  surrender  to  circum- 
stances and  to  what  he  was. 

Sometimes  when  the  rain  fell  we  took  shelter  under 
one  of  the  piazzas,  the  roof  of  which  was  upheld  by  trimmed 
cedars,  the  original  supports  having  rotted  away.  There 
were  several  poles  stretched  from  post  to  post  to  keep  the 
cattle  from  invading  the  premises,  and  under  its  floor 
dwelt  a  rabbit.  Often  I  remained  there  for  hours  alone, 
while  the  rain  fell  upon  the  roof,  and  looked  out  upon  tbe 
scene  I  knew  in  all  of  its  moods.  The  cattle  grazing  on 
the  slope,  the  brook  below  in  the  meadow,  and  the  hills 
beyond  clothed  with  trees.  If  rain  were  not  so  common 
we  would  regard  it  with  wonder — the  blue  sky  of  an  hour 
ago  shedding  tears. 

The  wall  of  the  house  was  built  of  stones  gathered  from 
the  neighboring  hills,  and  they  might  have  been  labeled, 
if  the  house  had  had  a  tenant,  and  served  as  his  geological 
museum  of  the  drift  boulders  of  the  vicinity.  There  were 
two  or  three  granites,  trap,  several  limestones  and  sand- 
stones, including  Jersey  trias.  Sometimes  when  the  rain 
fell  in  torrents  and  came  gushing  from  the  spout  connected 


68  Tenants. 

with  the  roof,  the  horses  ran  to  the  protection  of  the  house 
and,  wheeling  about,  placed  their  heads  in  the  most  shel- 
tered situation.  There  they  would  stand,  with  their  heads 
under  the  piazza  roof  viewing  me  with  mild,  patient  eyes, 
and  waiting  for  the  storm  to  go  over. 

Another  shelter  from  the  rain  was  the  old  chicken 
house  behind  the  barn,  and  oft  have  I  sat  in  the  nests  on 
the  leaves  that  had  blown  therein  from  the  neighboring 
trees.  They  were  the  collection  of  years,  for  the  nests 
had  been  eggless  for  a  long  time,  and  the  door  gone  from 
its  hinges.  Now  and  then  a  cow  came  and  placed  her 
head  on  the  pole  nailed  athwart  the  doorway,  reached  her 
nose  as  far  out  toward  me  as  she  could,  and  gave  several 
sniffs  of  surprise.  I  used  to  regard  the  withered  leaves 
affectionately,  for  they  were  the  souvenirs  of  some  past 
Summer,  and  chance  had  saved  them  from  decay.  The 
breeze  that  rustled  in  the  neighboring  green  trees  caused 
them  to  gyrate  about  the  floor,  and,  no  doubt,  many  were 
lost  through  the  open  door-way. 

The  wild  mice  had  stored  many  nuts  and  seeds  in  the 
convenient  nooks  in  the  roof,  and  the  nests  were  well 
stocked  with  remnants  of  their  feasts  that  had  dropped 
from  the  beams  above.  There  was  a  blending  of  Summer 
and  Winter  in  the  scene  that  was  ever  interesting.  I  could 
hear  the  z-ing  of  the  harvest  flies  without,  whose  song  might 
be  termed  the  essence  of  Summer,  for  no  sound  has  more 
of  Summer  in  its  tone,  while  within  were  the  withered 
leaves  and  the  gnawed  nuts  from  the  mouse's  Winter  store. 

Occasionally  a  gray  squirrel  hopped  about  beneath  the 
trees,  and  at  evening  the  rabbits  came  from  their  hiding. 


Tenants.  69 

Once  I  sat  on  the  prostrate  trunk  of  a  willow  that  some 
storm  of  several  summers  past  had  blown  down,  watching 
the  bats  fly  from  the  ventilator  in  the  roof  of  the  barn, 
when  from  under  the  building  came  a  rabbit  and  shortly, 
from  beneath  the  house,  another.  They  ran  about  in  the 
grass,  twitching  their  noses  and  flapping  their  ears.  One 
sat  in  the  path  as  a  horse  came  near,  and  finally  when  it 
was  obliged  to  retreat,  ran  under  the  log  on  which  I  lay. 
Afterward  it  sat  in  the  grass  near  the  doghouse,  whose  oc- 
cupant commenced  to  howl,  for  just  then  the  old  German 
came  driving  a  cow  along  the  path  to  the  barn.  The 
rabbit  remained  quiet,  though  so  plainly  visible,  and  the 
old  man  and  the  cow  passed  close  by.  Whether  from 
knowingness  or  stupidity,  this  habit  of  keeping  still  at  the 
approach  of  danger  has  saved  many  members  of  Bunny's 
family  from  destruction. 

The  anxious  howling  of  the  dog  was  easily  explained, 
for  his  supper  was  given  him  in  the  barn,  and  when  he 
was  untied  he  made  a  dead  set  for  the  door,  and  often 
bunked  against  it.  He  ran  as  fast  as  he  could  for  his  sup- 
per, and  as  he  slept  in  the  barn,  this  daily  run  was  the  chiet 
novelty  of  his  existence,  the  only  change. 

In  June,  when  the  young  bats  left  their  mothers  and 
flew  about  on  their  own  account,  many  of  them  fell  within 
the  reach  of  this  same  dog  and  were  quickly  despatched. 
In  the  morning  their  dead  bodies  were  thrown  out  of  the 
window  by  the  old  man,  who  complained  of  their  foolish- 
ness. These  little  bats  would  also  hang  up  anywhere 
about  the  barn,  for,  perhaps,  they  were  unable  to  find  the 
way  to  the  general  assemblies  of  their  kind.  All  day  sev- 


70  Tenants. 

eral  large  clusters  of  the  bats  hung  from  the  rafters  of  the 
roof,  and  when  the  sun  was  setting  they  commenced  to 
click  incessantly,  and  at  dusk  flew  singly  and  by  twos  and 
threes  from  the  slatted  windows. 

The  English  sparrows  used  to  go  in  and  out  of  the  stall 
windows,  which  were  without  glass,  but  a  scarlet  tanager 
coming  in  that  way  became  confused  and  flew  against  the 
glazed  window  on  the  opposite  side,  beneath  which  I  found 
its  dead  body. 

The  old  man  rarely  found  fault  with  the  creatures  that 
lived  about  the  place,  and  helped  them  all  he  could  in 
their  struggle  for  existence.  He  once  complained  that  the 
crows  pulled  his  pears  for  him — pulled  them  all  off  and 
dropped  them  on  the  ground;  but  he  was  friendly  to  the 
rabbits,  and  felt  much  grieved  one  day  when  a  nest  of 
theirs  had  been  destroyed.  "  Monday  I  made  hay,"  said 
he,  "  Tuesday  I  made  hay  again,  and  I  had  two  fellows 
to  help  me.  Up  in  the  orchard  they  found  a  rabbit's  nest 
with  seven  young  ones,  and  they,  fools,  thought  they  were 
rats  and  killed  them  with  the  forks.  They  might  have 
known  by  the  ears.  Anyhow,  in  the  Fall  they  get  shot, 
so  they  only  die  a  little  sooner." 

Even  the  woodpeckers  that  bored  into  the  side  of  the 
house,  and  looked  out  from  their  fastness  and  cackled  at 
us  as  we  stood  below,  were  not  regarded  as  trespassers, 
though  the  old  man,  one  Autumn,  after  they  had  gone,  did 
nail  some  pieces  of  tin  over  the  holes.  Nevertheless  they 
came  back  the  next  year  and  reared  their  young  in  the  side 
of  the  house  as  usual.  The  wily  high-holders  knew  they 
had  a  good  residence  and  were  loath  to  leave,  and  the  old 


Tenants.  71 

man  considered  them  most  knowing  and  praiseworthy 
birds. 

After  years  of  unoccupancy  this  old  mansion  was  at  last 
to  find  a  human  tenant.  The  bees  were  banished  from 
the  chimney,  the  rabbit  from  beneath  the  piazza  floor,  and 
the  woodpeckers  were  to  poke  their  heads  no  longer  from 
the  house-side  and  cackle  at  us  below,  for  with  the  natural 
tenantry,  the  old  man  and  I  were  forced  to  leave. 

It  has  been  said  by  the  poetess  Landon  that  memory 
sheds  no  gladness  o'er  the  past,  and  that  it  cannot  make 
the  present  more  bright  and  cheerful;  yet  is  a  pleasant  re- 
collection that  lingers  about  the  old  man  and  the  creatures 
that  sought  the  protection  of  the  silent,  weather-stained 
mansion  and  the  neighboring  trees. 

Tercival  spoke  nearer  the  truth  when  he  said  that 
many  hours  of  the  past  are  brightened  as  "  time  steals 
away."  This  is  especially  true  of  the  memory  of  hours 
spent  afield,  for  a  man  is  rarely  out  of  touch  with  nature, 
however  he  may  find  fault  with  his  human  companions. 
Indeed  what  would  we  do  without  our  memories,  for  do 
they  not  help  us  to  mind  the  coming  way ;  and  even  in  the 
matter  of  rambling  afield,  the  halo  that  hovers  about  our 
previous  journeys  tinges  the  present  hour,  and  causes  the 
surroundings  to  wear  a  special  significance  to  each  of  us, 
for  we  see  through  the  spectacles  of  our  experience. 


NATIVE  BROOKS. 


£TT"  BROOK  that  is  purely  natural,  that  shows  no 
ff"A  trace  of  man's  innovation  throughout  its  course, 
-1-  A.  is  a  great  rarity.  A  bit  of  newspaper  or  an  old, 
rusty  tin  can  lodged  somewhere  mid  the  tangled  tree- 
roots,  tells  the  age,  if  not  the  year,  and  in  the  more  utili- 
tarian communities  there  is  that  process  of  cleaning  up, 
before  which  the  trees  and  ferns  are  swept  away.  A 
brook  without  ferns,  without  shade,  with  old  tin  cans  and 
bits  of  newspaper,  is  no  longer  under  the  rule  of  Sylvanus. 
and  every  additional  stroke  of  the  axe  is  one  for  the  stream 
also,  for  a  man  cuts  off  his  brook  when  he  cuts  down  his 
trees. 

However,  on  Staten  Island  there  are  some  woodland 
brooks  still  remaining,  though  not  purely  wild  ones,  and 
others  whose  banks  have  been  partly  cleared,  but  which  still 
retain  many  pleasing  features.  They  are  naturally  divided 
into  those  of  the  eastern  and  western  portions,  for  the  Fresh 
Kill,  from  the  Sound,  reaching  inward,  approaches  quite 
close  to  the  Great  Kill,  and  these  arms  of  the  sea  leave 
only  a  neck  of  land  a  mile  and  three  quarters  wide.  On 
the  eastern  portion  about  a  dozen  streams  have  found 


Native  Brooks.  73 

their  way  on  the  map,  but  a  map  gives  a  poor  history,  and 
though  it  may  exhibit  with  great  exactness  all  the  wind- 
ings and  fantastic  curves  that  a  little  brook  may  take,  it 
cannot  say  whether  its  course  is  over  sand  or  rocks,  nor 
anything  of  the  trees  that  grow  along  its  banks.  The  map 
tells  just  as  much  to-day  of  the  brook  that  runs  down  to 
the  shore  nearly  parallel  to  the  Turnpike  road,  by  Brook 
Street,  as  it  did  a  hundred  years  ago  when  it  emptied  as  a 
pure  little  stream  near  the  "  Watering  Place,"  where  the 
ships  stopped  to  fill  their  casks  before  going  to  sea.  No 
one  will  say  of  it  now  "  how  beautiful,"  nor  quote  a  line 
from  Bryant's  "  Wind  and  Stream,"  and  of  all  the  wild 
creatures  that  once  wandered  along  its  banks,  only  a  few 
muskrats,  that  occasionally  appear  on  sidewalks  and  in 
cellars,  now  remain. 

It  is  the  same  with  the  Jersey  Street  brook,  that  once 
ran  to  the  shore  by  the  "  Still  House  Landing,"  and  the 
one  that  winds  its  way  through  Stapleton,  an  humble  pris- 
oner except  in  freshet  time,  when  it  occasionally  assists 
the  Prohibition  party,  floating  chairs  and  tables  con- 
veniently out  of  the  saloon  doors  and  basement  windows. 
Such  was  the  effect  of  the  storm  of  July  23d,  1887. 

That  the  alders,  with  their  dangling  catkins,  grew 
along  the  banks  of  these  little  streams  is  a  certainty,  and 
that  some  Dutch  settler,  with  expansive  pantaloons — a 
"  tough  breeches,"  as  Washington  Irving  would  call  him — 
lived  near  by,  is  a  great  probability.  But  that  definite 
description  of  the  times  and  of  the  relationship  of  man  to 
the  surrounding  natural  features,  that  always  lends  a  charm 
to  a  locality,  cannot  be  made  in  these  later  days. 


74  Native  Brooks. 

The  little  spring  in  the  slightly  rising  ground  near  the 
swamp  to  the  northeast  of  Silver  Lake — or  Fresh  Pond,  as 
it  used  to  be  called — is  much  more  interesting  for  bearing 
the  name  of  Logan,  the  Indian  who  is  said  to  have  lived 
near  it.  He,  no  doubt,  would  share  our  sorrow  in  seeing 
how  often  it  is  dry  in  recent  years,  and  would  help 
if  he  could  in  clearing  away  the  paper  boxes  and  egg- 
shells that  are  left  by  the  average  picnic  party.  Logan's 
Spring  brook  is  a  rocky  one  for  Staten  Island.  In  one 
place  it  is  lost  to  view  for  several  yards  under  rocks 
and  tree-roots,  except  when  it  is  full  of  water,  when  it  also 
makes  use  of  an  upper  channel.  There  are  monstrous 
crayfish  hidden  away  under  the  rocks,  and  no  end  of 
"  water-measurers  " — or  "  water-spiders,"  as  they  are  called 
— that  wait  patiently  for  some  luckless  creature,  often  a 
cricket,  floating  down  the  stream.  In  the  grounds  of  the 
Sailors'  Snug  Harbor  it  runs  through  a  thick  growth  of 
little  trees,  where  the  bluejays  are  numerous,  and  finally 
over  a  steep  incline  of  serpentine  rock  and  under  the  wall. 
It  finds  its  way  through  many  a  shaded  lawn  in  its  course 
to  the  Kill  von  Kull,  but  art  rarely  improves  upon  nature, 
and  a  little  brook  cannot  be  made  more  beautiful  by  being 
confined  between  two  straight  stone  walls. 

Clove  Valley,  formed  by  a  fork  of  the  otherwise  nearly 
straight  range  of  serpentine  hills,  forcibly  reminds  the 
rambler  of  more  northern  views — of  the  hills  and  mild 
farming  country  along  portions  of  the  Hudson  River,  only 
there  the  rock  is  different.  So  well  is  the  valley  itself  walled 
in,  that  if  a  dam  were  built  at  the  Clove,  and  another  where 
Britton's  mill  once  stood,  a  considerable  lake  would  be 


Native  Brooks.  75 

formed.  In  olden  time,  just  after  the  first  pond  was  made, 
the  place  was  particularly  favorable  for  a  naturalist ;  for  in 
these  days  it  is  occasionally  visited  by  the  great  blue 
herons,  many  rare  plants  grow  there,  and  the  phaeton 
butterfly  flies  feebly  in  June.  Trout  have  been  caught  in 
some  numbers,  even  in  recent  years,  and  the  common 
sucker  abounds.  A  night  rambler,  with  a  lantern,  will 
discover,  in  the  month  of  May,  scores  of  them  swimming 
upstream  to  spawn,  and  when  a  shallow  place  is  approached 
there  is  a  scurry  among  the  fish,  accompanied  by  much 
splashing,  as  they  make  for  deeper  water. 

About  1796  John  McVicker,  who  lived  in  the  Dongan 
mansion,  constructed  a  canal  through  the  valley  from 
Silver  Lake  to  bring  more  water  for  the  mill  on  "  Mill 
Creek,"  and  it  was  not  so  long  ago  that  the  trees  were 
felled  and  turned  into  bungs  for  beer-barrels  at  the  mill  on 
Clove  Pond.  Clove  Valley  Brook  once  flowed  through  a 
deep  ravine,  and  it  is  evident  that  there  was  less  swamp 
then  than  there  is  to-day,  for  the  numerous  dams  made  to 
collect  the  water  into  ponds  have  also  caused  the  muggy 
meadows. 

The  brook  system,  one  branch  of  which  drains  the 
region  about  Four  Corners — or  Centreville,  as  it  used  to  be 
called — is  quite  extensive,  and  its  exact  watershed  is  hard 
to  define.  The  main  stream  forms  for  a  considerable 
distance  the  boundary -line  between  Castleton  and  North- 
field,  and  in  the  days  of  Gov.  Dongan  was  known  as 
Palmer's  Run.  It  formerly  received  the  entire  drainage 
from  the  Clove  Valley,  and  its  waters  have  at  one  time  or 
another  turned  the  wheels  of  many  different  mills.  A 


76  Native  Brooks. 

portion  of  its  course  is  still  through  pleasant  pasture-land, 
but  a  brook  is  so  in  sympathy  with  the  season,  that  it 
depends  largely  when  you  see  it  as  to  the  impression  it 
leaves ;  it  seems  in  Winter  hardly  the  one  we  knew  in 
Summer  days.  Occasionally,  as  late  as  April,  the  more 
placid  portions  are  frozen  over,  the  caddis  fly  laivse  and 
water  beetles  may  be  seen  on  the  bottom  through  the  ice, 
and  it  seems  at  such  times  nothing  short  of  a  miracle  when 
it  is  considered  what  a  change  a  few  days  will  bring,  and 
how  considerable  that  change  really  is.  When  Spring  is 
fairly  started  it  comes  very  fast  indeed,  and  one  may  almost 
give  the  day  of  the  month  by  the  unfolding  of  the  benzoin 
flowers — they  keep  so  truly  the  schedule  time  of  the 
season. 

On  the  banks  of  the  branch  of  Palmer's  Run,  that 
crosses  the  Turnpike  to  the  north-west  of  Four  Corners, 
there  stands  a  large  white  oak,  with  wide  spreading 
branches,  and  the  fern  Polypodium  finds  a  home  there, 
growing  on  the  top  of  a  large  boulder.  This  is  a  rare  plant 
on  the  Island,  though  so  common  northward  and  on  higher 
ground.  An  old  Indian  wanders  often  about  the  woods, 
and  occasionally  along  this  stream,  carrying  a  book  of 
songs  under  his  arm,  and  when  he  gets  tired  of  walking  he 
sits  down  and  sings.  He  says  he  can  sing  better  than  he 
can  do  anything  else.  One  day  he  had  a  bundle  of  cat- 
nip, which  he  had  gathered  for  a  cat  belonging  to  a  family 
of  his  acquaintance  in  the  city,  and  as  he  walked  along  he 
gave  an  account  of  his  people  :  "Among  Indians,  no  edu- 
cation. Father  take  child  to  another  tribe — he  learn  to 
speak  language.  Go  by  horse,  across  great  prairie — only 


Native  Brooks.  77 

see  grass  and  little  bushes — great  blue  sky — nice."  The 
idea  of  sky  was  expressed  by  throwing  his  arm  over  his 
head,  and  looking  upward,  and  the  little  bushes  were 
compared  to  one  near  by. 

Willow  brook  is  one  of  the  best  known  streams  on  the 
Island,  and  also  one  of  the  longest ;  rising  near  the  highest 
point,  it  empties  into  that  arm  of  Fresh  Kill,  known  as 
"  Main  Branch,"  having  in  all  a  course  of  about  four  miles. 
At  various  times  its  water  has  been  used  by  mills  and  small 
factories,  the  best  known  of  these  being  the  gun  factory 
near  the  Willow  Brook  road,  and  the  Crocheron  mill,  near 
the  Bull's  Head,  or  Phcenixville.  This  mill  was  standing 
in  1884,  though  much  decayed,  and  the  Italians  employed 
on  the  proposed  cross  island  railroad,  made  the  building 
their  home.  It  is  now  fallen  down,  most  of  the  timbers 
removed,  the  wild  flowers  growing  over  the  remaining  ones, 
and  through  the  shaft -hole  in  the  mill  stone.  By  the  pond, 
that  once  served  as  a  head  of  water  for  this  mill,  there 
stands  three  trees  of  the  river  birch,  which  is  not  a  com- 
mon kind  on  the  Island,  though  so  plentiful  along  some  of 
the  New  Jersey  rivers.  Since  these  trees  were  discovered, 
some  others  have  been  found,  and  along  the  Annadale 
road,  by  a  brook  side,  there  are  quite  a  number.  They 
always  seem  dissatisfied,  as  it  were,  with  their  bark,  ap- 
parently wishing  to  get  rid  of  a  portion  of  it,  for  it  hangs  in 
loose  pieces  that  flap  in  the  wind.  Perhaps  this  bark  is 
useful  in  retaining  the  rain  that  falls  on  it,  as  the  tree  is 
a  particularly  moisture -loving  species. 

A  shag-bark  hickory  grows  near  by,  and  the  nuts  are  re- 
markable for  their  thin  shells  and  large  size.  The  wild  mice 


78  Native  Brooks. 

have  also  found  this  out,  and  congregate  at  the  foot  of  the 
tree  in  a  little  pile  of  stones.  They  are  not  in  favor  of  per- 
petuating this  particular  variety,  and  know  nothing  of  selec- 
tion for  the  good  of  their  kind,  and  so  nibble  two  small  holes 
in  every  nut.  There  is  also  a  peperidge,  or  sour  gum  tree, 
near  the  brook,  which  is  next  in  size  to  the  large  one  on 
New  Dorp  lane.  It  has  long  served  as  a  corner  of  a  fence, 
and  perhaps  is  the  mark  of  an  old  boundary  line.  The 
fence  rails  enter  its  hollow  trunk  at  right  angles,  and  are 
fastened  to  an  old  post  propped  up  "inside  the  cavity. 
A  gray  squirrel  retreated  to  the  tree,  and  wasps  flew  in 
circles  about  their  home  in  its  broken  top,  one  September 
day,  when  the  leaves  were  just  commencing  to  turn  to 
that  beautiful  crimson,  so  characteristic  of  the  peperidge 
tree.  Not  even  the  red  maple,  with  its  red  flowers  in 
spring,  its  branch  tips  red,  and  its  vivid  red  leaves  in 
autumn,  ever  attains  such  a  deep  blood  color  as  the 
peperidge  tree. 

Brooks  are  not  only  in  sympathy  with  the  seasons,  but 
they  are  glad  or  sad  at  we  take  them,  and  the  Moravian 
brook,  as  it  winds  its  way  mid  the  white  and  gray  tomb- 
stones in  the  cemetery,  seems  to  be  in  accord  with  the 
scene.  It  is  not  the  glad  little  brook  that  starts  from  the 
Woolsey  pond  on  the  Todt  Hill  road,  nor  does  it  seem  the 
same  that  flows  through  the  low-lying  meadows  to  New 
Creek  by  the  shore.  Out  on  these  meadows  it  is  joined 
by  the  stream  from  Garretson's,  one  branch  of  which  rises 
in  Mersereau's  valley,  where  the  hermit  had  his  cabin  by 
the  spring  in  the  days  of  the  Revolution,  and  where  was 
enacted  that  tragedy  that  makes  the  place  so  interesting. 


Native  Brooks.  79 

An  old  deserted  farm-house,  with  hand-made  lath  and 
beams,  and  filled  in  with  mud,  stands  on  the  hill  facing 
this  deep  ravine,  and  the  outlook,  extending  to  the  ocean 
beyond,  is  one  of  the  most  pleasing  on  the  island.  Some 
of  the  orchard  trees  are  very  large  and  have  many  tenants 
among  the  birds,  and  cardinal  grossbeaks  live  Winter  and 
Summer  mid  the  catbrier  on  the  hill-side.  The  other 
branch  of  this  brook  rises  in  the  swamp,  where  the  Reeds, 
father  and  son,  raised  willows  for  basket-making.  The 
trees  still  remain,  and  "  forget-me-nots "  grow  along  the 
brook  bank,  but  the  house  is  gone. 

To  the  northwest  of  Richmond  village  there  is  a  wild 
piece  of  country,  and  two  little  brooks  join  in  the  woods 
and  flow  into  that  arm  of  the  Kill  that  reaches  so  far  into 
the  island.  As  late  as  1884,  the  night  herons  made  their 
home  near  its  banks,  and  the  deserted  nests  in  young 
swamp  oaks,  often  several  in  a  tree,  and  an  occasional  one 
in  a  white  birch  or  cedar,  may  still  be  seen.  The  people 
in  the  neighborhood  gathered  the  eggs  and,  beating  them 
together,  fed  them  to  the  cows,  and  the  Italians  also  ate 
many.  They  are  as  large  as  the  eggs  laid  by  many  breeds 
of  hens,  so  a  very  few  would  make  a  meal.  These  birds 
utter  a  dismal  "  qua"  and  always  seem  sad,  sitting  motion- 
less on  the  trees  through  the  day  until  evening,  when  they 
go  fishing  in  the  Kills. 

There  is  a  dark,  gloomy  old  house  in  the  woods  near 
this  brook,  where  some  of  the  Italians  lived  when  employed 
on  the  railroad.  It  is  now  given  over  to  chimney  swal- 
lows and  wasps,  and  the  carpenter  bees  have  made  their 
tunnels  in  the  boards  for  many  years.  One  of  these  boards 


80  Native  Brooks. 

has  been  tunneled  sixty-five  times,  the  work  of  many  pleas- 
ant Summer  days. 

Woodland  brooks  and  springs  are  not  only  beautiful  and 
interesting,  but  they  play  no  unimportant  part  in  the  house- 
hold economy,  and  their  sanitary  condition  is  of  great 
moment.  Dairies  are  named  after  them,  and  citizens  can 
choose  their  water  supply  with  great  accuracy.  Many  a 
cow  has  done  the  trustful  purchaser  of  her  lacteal  pro- 
duct a  great  injustice,  by  standing  with  her  feet  in  the 
water  of  some  pond  or  little  purling  stream.  The  dairy- 
man will  tell  you  that  it  is  done  to  keep  the  flies  off,  but 
"  Bos,"  "  Cush,"  and  "  Speckled  Jenny,"  only  smile  with 
a  sort  of  increased-dividend  expression,  when  slyly  in- 
terrogated on  this  point. 

In  April  the  blood-root  blossoms,  and  its  single  leat 
often  closely  clasps  the  flower  stem,  forming  a  sort  of  green 
collar.  It  is  a  dainty  flower  but  none  too  choice  to  deck 
the  steep  hill  sides  of  the  crooked  and  shaded  ravine 
where  it  grows  in  greatest  profusion.  This  is  Blood-root 
Valley  and  Blood-root  Valley  brook,  along  the  course  of 
which,  it  is  said,  a  British  messenger,  in  Revolutionary 
days,  travelled  on  his  way  from  camp  to  camp.  This 
stream,  which  is  often  dry  in  summer,  also  rises  near  the 
highest  point,  and  goes  to  form  the  Richmond  brook. 
The  drainage  of  the  district  was  formerly  collected  in  a 
pond,  used  by  a  saw-mill,  of  which  there  is  now  only  a  few 
beams  left,  and  the  dam  is  broken.  About  1870,  the  boys 
bathed  in  this  pond,  and  a  little  lame  boy  with  crutches 
and  a  board  for  support,  used  to  enjoy  himself  as  much 
as  his  companions. 


Native  Brooks.  81 

A  number  of  skirmishes  occurred  along  Richmond  or 
Stony  brook,  in  the  years  of  the  Revolution,  particularly 
on  the  day  of  the  fight  at  St.  Andrew's  Church.  But  it  is 
more  pleasing  to  think  of  it  in  the  times  of  peace,  to  see  the 
water  snakes  glide  in  so  smoothly,  the  turtles  scuttle  with 
much  haste  and  the  wayward  frogs  jump  recklessly  off  the 
bank  frightening  the  black-nosed  dace  below.  When  these 
little  fish  are  disturbed,  they  will  scatter  in  all  directions, 
coming  together  shortly,  if  they  imagine  the  danger  is 
past.  At  other  times  they  will  sink  to  the  deepest  places 
in  the  stream,  and  remain  on  the  sand  or  pebbles,  not 
moving  a  fin,  and  as  their  backs  are  sand  colored,  they  are 
not  easily  seen  from  above.  Occasionally  when  there  is 
nothing  to  fear,  one  will  be  seen  lying  motionless  for  a  long 
time  between  two  pebbles,  and  thus  can  they  rest  and 
sleep  when  they  desire. 

There  are  numbers  of  plane-wood  trees  on  the  banks  of 
this  stream,  and  a  profusion  of  wild  flowers  and  a  patch  ol 
periwinkle  on  the  steep  hill-side  to  the  west.  A  wooded 
slope,  with  a  brook  nearby,  always  proves  attractive  to  the 
birds,  and  this  one  is  a  great  favorite  with  them.  Cat- 
birds congregate  about  the  smilax  patches  and  sing  their 
varied  songs,  which  are  always  worth  listening  to,  but  it  is 
in  May,  just  before  nest  building  commences,  when  the 
males  talk  to  their  drab-colored  mates  in  coaxing,  faint 
undertones,  that  they  are  most  interesting,  and  those  who 
have  not  listened  to  this  bright-eyed  bird  at  such  a  time, 
only  know  a  small  portion  of  his  vocabulary. 

There  has  been  much  discussion  of  late  as  to  the  real 
source  of  the  Mississippi,  and  it  would  turn  an  explorer's 


82  Native  Brooks. 

hair  gray  to  discover  just  where  Old  Place  brook  rises,  to 
decide  to  the  world's  satisfaction  from  under  which  par- 
ticular skunk  cabbage  leaf  courses  the  first  little  rill.  The 
marsh -marigolds,  that  grow  so  plentifully  nearby,  do  not 
know  where  it  rises,  and  the  snails  that  float  on  their 
backs,  each  with  its  broad  fleshy  foot  turned  up  to  the  sun, 
do  not  care.  They  start  from  some  water-parsnips  stem 
or  dead  twig,  on  their  journey,  but  all  trials  to  place  them 
gently  in  the  water  with  the  hand,  and  have  them  float 
away,  result  in  failures,  for  they  also  can  appreciate  the 
appearance  of  danger. 

To  the  east  of  the  Bohman  mansion,  near  Bohman's 
Point,  there  is  a  little  brook,  that  flows  through  a  sandy 
semi  pasture  and  woodland  region.  It  is  bordered 
in  part  by  willows  and  old  orchard  trees,  and  the  land  has 
that  unmistakable  air  of  an  ancient  farming  spot.  On  the 
high  sand  dune,  nearby,  about  which  this  brook  bends  in 
bow  fashion,  the  Indians  lived  in  old  time,  and  their 
implements  and  little  heaps  of  flint  chips,  where  the  arrows 
were  made,  may  still  be  discovered.  The  spring,  where 
they  got  water,  is  on  the  hill-side,  though  now  filled  up 
with  sand  and  grass  grown,  but  the  stones  that  formed  its 
sides  mark  the  site,  and  a  tiny  rill  issues  from  among  them 
in  very  wet  weather. 

They  had  an  eye  for  beauty,  as  evinced  by  the  patterns 
on  the  broken  pieces  of  pottery  lying  about,  and  no  doubt 
they  thought  the  warblers  very  gay,  that  congregate  in 
spring-time  about  a  moist  place  near  the  brook.  The 
warblers  come  every  year,  just  the  same,  but  the  Indians 
are  gone,  and  probably  in  the  large  factory  across  the  Kill 


Native  Brooks.  83 

with  its  thousands  of  employes,  only  one  or  two  would 
recognize  their  implements  scattered  among  the  other 
stones  on  the  sand. 

There  are  many  brooks  on  the  eastern  portion  of  the 
Island,  too  small  to  be  recorded  on  any  map  and  known 
to  but  few,  but  it  is  with  brooks  as  when  viewing  a  great 
estate,  just  as  often  the  little  gate  house,  as  the  mansion  on 
the  hill,  that  leaves  the  most  pleasing  impression.  Many 
a  man  remembers  with  affection  the  rill  that  turned  his 
first  water  wheel,  or  maybe  where  the  brook-mint  grew, 
and  though  enlarged  experience  may  show  that  it  was  a 
poor  little  stream  indeed,  yet  it  is  the  one  that  brings  the 
tears  to  his  eyes. 


THE  POND-MEADOW. 


IT  is  dark,  the  snow  lies  on  the  ground,  and  I  sit  silently 
in  the  house  and  think  of  the  warmer  days  when  I 
rambled  at  eventide,  when  the  sun  did  not  set  so  early 
and  there  was  a  greater  margin  to  the  afternoons.  It  was 
pleasant  then,  when  the  hurry  and  disquiet  of  town  employ- 
ment were  at  an  end,  to  steal  away  to  some  retired  nook, 
where  only  the  louder  and  more  piercing  cries  uttered  in  the 
warfare  of  commerce,  could  intrude  upon  the  ear.  It  was 
easy  to  find  such  surroundings,  and  they  seemed  to  bespeak 
unbroken  solitude,  where  perchance  the  foot  of  man  had 
not  been  for  many  weeks.  But  soon  there  broke  upon  the 
ear  a  multitude  of  artificial  sounds  that  had  found  their 
way  thither  through  the  leafy  trees,  and  which  proclaimed 
the  still  existing  uproar  of  the  outer  world.  We  cannot 
escape  these  clangings,  if  we  live  within  the  reach  of  baker's 
bread,  and  our  ears  have  become  so  accustomed  to  them, 
to  the  blowing  of  whistles,  the  firing  of  guns  and  the  rum- 
bling of  trains,  that  we  often  fail  to  give  them  heed.  There 
is  also  a  certain  companionship  that  is  not  objectionable 
in  the  far  away  sounds  that  are  due  to  human  agency — 
mankind  is  reachable  they  seem  to  say,  and  awaits  you  in 
the  distance.  This  is  especially  true  of  the  whistling,  rum- 


The  Pond-Meadow.  85 

bling  train  across  the  meadows,  that  does  not  break  but 
rather,  as  a  reminder  of  the  outer  world,  deepens  the  sense 
of  retirement. 

Such  a  place  of  rural  scenes,  where  nevertheless  the 
sounds  of  commerce  are  ever  audible,  are  the  acres  of  wood- 
land and  uncultivated  sandy  fields  on  the  north  shore  of 
the  Island,  between  Old  Place  creek  and  the  settlement 
along  the  kill.  For  many  years  prior  to  the  railroad,  though 
in  sight  of  the  cities  across  the  Sound,  and  not  far  from 
New  York  itself,  this  corner  escaped  the  enterprise  of  trade; 
utility  went  round  and  left  these  acres  to  the  grasshoppers, 
to  the  bitterns,  and  to  me. 

With  the  railroad  came  changes,  but  not  immediately, 
and  for  the  first  years  of  its  occupancy,  save  for  the  width 
of  the  track,  the  land  was  undisturbed.  Much  of  it  indeed, 
still  remains  unoccupied,  but  commerce  having  looked  that 
way,  already  covets  the  water  fronts,  and  the  speculator 
has  raised  his  signs  of  "  Lots  for  Sale."  By-and-by  will  be 
the  factories,  the  rows  of  squalid  houses,  the  goats  and  the 
tin  cans. 

The  land  is  low  and  swampy  in  places,  where  the  trees 
grow  large,  and  anon  there  are  sandy  tracts  which  support 
only  a  few  blackberry  bushes  and  sumachs.  Along  the 
salt  meadows,  to  the  west,  are  several  irregular  dunes,  and 
cutting  deep  into  the  woods  through  a  narrow  neck,  is  a 
bay -like  salt  meadow  with  a  straggling  creek  in  its  midst. 

In  these  barren  worn  out  fields,  in  the  woods  on  the 
edge  of  the  salt  meadow,  and  particularly  of  the  bay  or 
pond  shaped  meadow,  which  is  now  crossed  by  the  railroad 
trestle,  I  have  spent  many  hours,  often  staying  into  the 


86  The  Pond-Meadow. 

night  to  hear  the  bitterns  and  the  whippoorwills.  I  built 
perches  or  roosts  in  the  trees,  from  whence  I  might  see 
across  the  pond-meadow,  or  climbing  upon  the  trestle, 
watched  the  life  that  abounded  in  the  creek  and  the  grass 
below. 

When  seated  mid  the  large  beams  that  composed  the 
trestle  that  stretched  far  in  the  distance,  I  used  to  feel  very 
small  indeed,  and  I  was  often  reminded  as  I  sunned  myself 
there,  of  the  traveller's  story  of  the  Egyptian  in  the  ear  of 
the  Sphinx.  I  quickly  found  that  I  was  placed  in  an 
unusual  position,  and  might  watch  the  many  creatures 
below  me  unobserved  by  them,  and  thus  to  good  advantage 
to  myseli. 

The  muskrats  are  numerous  in  the  creek,  and  in  the 
ditches,  dug  on  either  side  of  the  trestle,  probably  for  the 
dual  purpose  of  drainage  and  protection  from  meadow 
fires.  In  making  these  trenches  the  earth  was  thrown  up 
in  piles,  and  these,  when  suitable,  are  taken  possession  of 
by  the  muskrats,  who  tunneling  them  find  dry  retreats 
above  the  highest  tides.  Occasionally  at  twilight,  the  parent 
muskrats  bring  their  half  grown  young  out  to  swim,  and 
the  family  go  paddling  up  and  down  the  ditch.  One  of 
the  musquashes  will  sometimes  call  continuously,  in  a  low 
somewhat  musical  strain  to  his  mate,  and  whenever  they 
come  near  each  other,  they  will  touch  noses,  which  no 
doubt  in  muskrat  etiquette  signifies  great  affection,  as  it 
does  in  some  African  tribes.  The  muskrat's  pappoose  is  a 
very  independent  individual,  and  his  wilful  ways,  when  he 
has  reached  a  certain  size,  cause  his  mother  much  anxiety. 
She  swims  after  him,  and  rat  minor  goes  where  he  lists. 


The  Pond-Meadow.  87 

When  swimming  they  ripple  their  tails,  and  perhaps  this 
aids  them  in  their  progress.  They  make  considerable  way 
against  even  the  strongest  tides,  and  leave  well  denned  V- 
shaped  wakes. 

The  high-tide  bushes  grow  by  the  creek  banks,  and  also 
along  the  ditches  on  either  side  of  the  trestle,  making  two 
dark  green  parallel  lines  in  the  lighter  colored  and  shorter 
meadow  grass.  These  bushes  are  the  home  of  the  common 
long-billed  marsh-wrens,  who  weave  their  domed  nests  in 
the  branches,  and  whose  bubbling,  gushing  songs,  often 
continue  late  into  the  night.  I  have  heard  them  in  June, 
as  late  as  8.20  p.  M.,  and  they  also  sing  until  the  middle  of 
September.  Often  they  throw  themselves  into  the  air,  and 
fly  slowly  with  a  hovering,  dangling  flight,  while  they  utter 
their  impetuous  song,  falling  again  into  the  meadow  as 
suddenly  as  they  arose.  It  is  pleasing  to  watch  them  go 
up  and  down  a  vertical  stem,  their  tails  most  pertly  turned 
over  their  backs  in  the  opposite  direction  from  that  more 
fashionable  adjustment  of  the  same  appendage  in  other 
birds.  They  often  linger  about  the  lower  beams  of  the 
trestle,  especially  where  some  of  them  have  been  laid  over 
a  reedy  ditch,  and  on  a  neighboring  plank-walk ;  I  remem- 
ber one  day,  that  my  approaching  foot-steps  disturbed  one 
of  these  sprightly  little  birds,  and  instead  of  jumping  off 
its  side,  as  a  sparrow  would  have  done,  it  simply  slipped 
between  two  of  the  boards  and  disappeared  into  the 
meadow  below.  The  sea-side  finches  are  neighbors  of  the 
marsh-wrens  and  at  evening  a  number  of  them  sing  along 
the  creek,  their  quaint  song  being  among  the  most  enter- 
taining to  be  heard  from  the  trestle.  It  starts  pleasantly 


88  The  Pond-Meadow \ 

but  ends  rather  oddly,  as  if  indeed  something  had  happened 
the  songster  in  the  midst  of  his  melody  and  caused  him  to 
suddenly  modify  his  tune.  It  may  be  roughly  rendered  in 
treele-ahn,  the  ahn  being  much  drawn  out.  Occasionally 
one  will  hover  in  the  air  over  the  high-tide  bushes  and 
sing  a  slightly  more  extended  song,  which,  however,  ends 
in  the  same  way  as  the  shorter  one.  At  times  they  also 
sing  a  short  treele-he.  The  birds  appear  about  the 
first  of  May  with  the  marsh-wrens,  long  before  the  high- 
tide  bushes  are  in  leaf,  and  I  have  heard  them  singing 
in  September.  I  have  seen  two  small  finches  in  the 
spring,  one  on  either  side  of  the  creek,  and  each  singing 
most  continuously,  while  a  female  spent  her  time  in  flying 
from  one  to  the  other  of  her  rival  suitors,  staying  but  a 
short  time  with  each.  She  had  evidently  not  made  up  her 
mind — was  greatly  perplexed  as  to  which  she  ought  to 
choose. 

Often  along  the  creek,  the  snipe  call  to  their  fellows 
flying  high  above,  and  the  alternate  call  and  reply,  is  one 
of  the  most  pleasing  bird  notes  to  be  heard  from  the  trestle. 
One  could  not  address  his  friend  in  more  kindly  tones. 

The  little  green  herons  often  perch  on  the  beams  above 
the  creek,  and  if  it  chances  to  be  on  the  topmost  one  that 
offers  an  unobstructed  run-way,  they  trot  along  for  a  con- 
siderable distance,  if  not  approached  too  rapidly.  Indeed 
the  trestle  is  a  favorite  perching  place  for  many  birds, 
where  they  may  look  out  over  the  wide  expanse  of  meadow. 
King-fishers  and  swallows  often  tarry  there,  while  nearer 
the  upland  it  is  the  resort  of  song-sparrows,  robins  and  cat- 
birds. It  is  ever  interesting  to  see  the  dark,  Spanish  gentle- 


The  Pond-Meadow.  89 

man  of  a  cat-bird,  perched  on  one  of  the  beams,  and 
perking  his  inquisitive  head  from  side  to  side,  or  to  hear  at 
evening  a  song-sparrow  pour  forth  his  sweetest  melody, 
while  all  the  meadow  lies  before  him.  The  barn-swallows, 
when  their  nesting  time  is  o'er,  range  themselves  in  rows 
along  those  nerves  of  the  railroad,  the  telegraph  wires,  and 
sing  that  short  song  for  which  they  ought  to  be  famous ; 
or  they  skim  the  velvety  meadow  grass,  as  if  it  were  the  sur- 
face of  a  pond.  Indeed  the  bay-meadow  is  so  remarkably 
pond-like  in  aspect,  in  the  little  capes  and  minor  bays,  that 
the  simile  is  quite  a  reasonable  one. 

Many  of  the  tides  overflow  a  considerable  stretch  of 
the  only  road  crossed  by  the  trestle,  and  looking  down  I 
have  often  seen  the  fish  swimming  over  the  road  itself. 
At  night  they  skip  and  jump  about  most  recklessly,  and  it 
is  no  wonder  that  many  of  them  meet  their  death,  and  that 
the  bitterns  and  the  musk-rats  have  an  ample  supply. 
Occasionally  in  the  spring  and  fall,  when  the  tides  are 
exceptionally  high,  the  low  lying  roads  in  the  vicinity  are 
flooded  quite  deeply,  and  the  water  reaches  two  or  three 
feet  up  the  hay  stacks  on  the  meadows,  so  that  a  cat-boat 
might  easily  be  sailed  among  them. 

At  dusk,  when  the  whippoonvills  come  flying  across 
the  pond-meadow,  near  the  junction  of  the  trestle  with  the 
upland,  they  go  over  the  track  instead  of  going  between 
the  pilos,  as  would  be  expected  of  such  cover  seeking 
birds.  They  call  most  energetically  at  times,  and  are  not 
even  frightened  by  the  rumbling  train  that  comes  at 
evening  over  the  trestle.  I  used  to  sit  often  on  one  of  the 
cross  beams,  and  the  train  would  go  rattling  by,  and 


90  J^he  Pond-Meadow. 

seemed  every  moment  to  be  falling  upon  me.  Each  car 
hummed  a  different  tune,  dependent  upon  the  relative 
looseness  of  its  bolts,  and  sometimes  a  box  would 
blaze,  and  make  the  passage  of  the  train  in  the  dark,  even 
more  impressive  and  weird. 

As  soon  as  it  was  gone  the  whippoorwills  would  call 
again  among  the  thick  growth  by  the  track,  and  often  they 
used  the  whip  more  lavishly  than  a  Russian  tax  collector, 
and  chastised  poor  William  from  eighty  to  a  hundred 
times.  But  as  the  night  progressed,  and  after  the  first 
outburst  of  their  dark  and  sombre  soul  was  o'er,  they  sang 
less  often,  and  uttered  the  notes  fewer  times  in  succession. 
They  have  also  a  second  call  that  I  have  heard  particularly 
in  June  and  July,  and  which  is  less  loud  than  the  whip- 
poorwill,  and  resembles  took-took-took.  If  you  are  not  close 
by,  it  is  inaudible,  and  it  probably  is  only  a  part  of  their 
nearer  conversation. 

The  whippoorwills  add  depth  to  the  woods,  their 
voices  are  inseparable  from  the  mist  and  dusk  of  night. 
But  even  after  they  have  commenced,  the  evening  bell  of 
the  wood-thrush  may  be  heard  as  he  tolls  it  solemnly  in 
the  woods.  The  catbirds  fly  out  in  the  dusk  to  the  few 
stunted  trees  that  grow  partly  in  the  meadow  grass,  and 
there  is  a  blending  of  day  and  night  songs — a  space  in 
time,  that  reminds  you  of  the  material  shore,  where  the 
land  and  the  sea  do  meet. 

At  the  end  of  the  calm  summer  days,  when  all  nature 
seemed  so  peaceful,  the  trestle  was  an  especially  fitting 
place  to  spend  the  evening.  The  sun  set  plainly  in  view? 
often  aflame,  and  the  wide  expanse  of  sky  was  tinted  a 


The  Pond-Meadow.  91 

thousand  hues.  Sometimes  at  the  close  of  day,  a  Monarch 
butterfly  came  sailing  high  in  the  air,  and  borne  on  the 
breeze  to  the  opposite  shore.  The  milk-weeds  there  sup- 
plied it  and  its  progeny  with  food,  and  it  finally  died  in 
some  far  away  pasture.  Wandering,  wandering,  always 
wandering,  never  perhaps  returning  to  the  same  field,  its 
home  and  its  food  everywhere ;  its  canopy,  a  bending  leaf. 
Year  after  year  the  butterflies  sail  on  just  the  same,  the 
meadows  are  as  green,  the  melody  of  the  marsh-wren 
reaches  from  summer  to  summer,  but  a  mystery  clothes 
them  still.  Our  investigations  end  in  a  sigh;  a  long 
breath  tells  of  the  hopelessness  of  the  inquiry. 

The  over-seeing  power  in  the  landscape  gardening  of 
this  world,  has  wrought  on  the  principle  of  never  making  a 
meadow  creek  conform  to  even  the  suggestion  of  a  straight 
line,  and  certainly  there  is  nothing  more  winding,  more 
tortuous  than  a  salt  meadow  kill.  It  seems  unwilling  to 
leave  the  green  meadows,  and  so  lengthens  the  way;  and 
its  meandering  course  may  be  followed  through  many  turns 
with  the  eye,  aided  by  the  taller  plants  growing  on  its 
banks.  This  vegetation  is  of  a  different  shade  than  the 
sunny  green  meadow ;  of  a  darker  color — the  upland  wood 
tint  traced  in  serpentine  patterns  on  the  lighter  green  grass. 
Even  at  dusk,  with  only  a  few  remaining  rays  of  light,  the 
carpet-like  meadow  wears  a  particularly  vivid  green,  and 
one  is  apt  to  look  to  westward,  to  make  quite  sure  that  the 
sun  has  really  set.  The  creek  slumbers  along  between  its 
weedy  banks,  and  is  over-spread  at  evening  with  a  host  of 
mysterious  shadows.  The  drift-wood  sails  a  long,  lazy, 
winding  journey,  and  probably  much  of  it  never  reaches 


92  The  Pond-Meadow. 

the  main  arm  of  the  sea,  but  returns  with  the  incoming 
tide. 

On  the  bridges,  where  the  creek  and  its  arm  cross  the 
road,  the  catchers  of  crabs  often  station  themselves,  and 
tying  pieces  of  meat,  or  fish  heads,  to  strings,  bait  the  wily 
crustaceans.  An  entertaining  party  of  three  negroes  occu- 
pied the  bridge  one  August  afternoon,  and  laughingly  told 
how  the  crabs  came  to  eat  of  a  dead  dog  that  lay  in  the 
water  just  up  the  kill;  and  which  kind  chance,  aided  by  a 
string,  a  brick  and  a  man,  had  brought  that  way.  One 
with  a  fishing  line  baited  with  a  small  piece  of  meat,  had 
captured  all  of  the  crabs,  because  his  line  was  longest,  and 
he  threw  it  nearer  to  the  dog.  He  now  and  then  slyly 
inquired  of  his  companions,  how  many  they  had  caught 
with  their  large  pieces  of  meat.  Then  there  was  an 
uproarious  darky  laugh,  loud  enough  to  frighten  all  of  the 
epicurean  crabs  from  their  chosen  feast,  and  cause  them  to 
run  sidewise  for  half  a  mile. 

The  same  afternoon,  a  little  boy  in  a  blue  cotton  shirt, 
was  crab  fishing  near  the  mill.  He  said  that  they  knew 
better  than  to  take  hold  of  his  bait,  which  no  doubt 
accounted  for  the  fact  that  he  had  secured  but  a  single 
individual  that  was  retained  in  the  net  with  which  he  hoped 
to  make  further  conquests.  He  ran  about  most  comically 
from  place  to  place,  holding  his  meat  fast  by  the  string,  in 
one  hand,  his  net  with  the  kicking  crab  in  the  other,  and 
all  the  while  whistling,  or  mumbling  about  the  crabs  being 
afraid  of  his  bait.  At  last  he  shouted  that  he  had  seen  a 
"  devil  crab,"  and  immediately  began  to  divest  himself  of 
his  shoes  and  stockings.  While  he  was  thus  employed,  I 


The  Pond-Meadow.  93 

went  fishing,  and  drew  a  crab  gently  to  the  shore.  Either 
through  my  maladroitness  or  the  evil  disposition  of  the 
bait,  as  avowed  by  the  little  boy,  the  crab  ran  away,  before 
the  net  containing  the  now  troublesome  captive,  could  be 
brought  into  action. 

So  instead  of  crabbing  we  sat  on  one  of  the  beams 
from  the  old  mill,  and  looked  out  over  the  meadow,  which 
at  mid-summer  is  beautifully  marbled.  Nature  gives  then 
a  display  in  greens,  with  here  and  there  patches  of  brown, 
where  the  grass  has  gone  to  seed.  Later  comes  the  sam- 
phire turned  a  bright  red,  a  few  asters,  the  sea  lavender? 
and  the  salt  meadow  golden-rod. 

The  clinking  of  the  mower  may  be  heard  a  long  dis- 
tance over  the  meadow,  and  the  horses,  the  machine  and 
the  men  appear  very  small ;  they  seem  lost  on  the  ocean  of 
grass,  as  unimportant  as  a  man  in  a  row-boat  on  the  sea. 
The  usual  land  perspective  will  not  serve  for  the  broad 
stretch  of  meadows,  and  you  are  not  sure  how  far  away 
objects  really  are. 

Some  of  the  farmers  believe  that  an  abundant  crop  of 
meadow  grass  indicates  a  severe  winter,  as  if  the  earth 
brought  forth  a  thick  growth  to  keep  itself  warm.  Where 
man  has  shorn  the  meadow,  the  crows  go  looking  for 
grasshoppers,  for  they  can  catch  them  there  much  more 
easily  than  in  the  longer  grass. 

The  mosquitoes  abound  on  the  meadows  at  certain  sea- 
sons, and  often  drive  away  the  crab  catchers,  whom  I  have 
seen  sitting  with  their  heads  drawn  down  in  their  coats,  the 
collars  of  which  were  turned  up  in  order  to  leave  the  least 
possible  area  open  to  attack.  Though  there  are  mosqui- 


94  The  Pond-Meadow. 

toes  on  the  meadows  throughout  the  summer,  still  they 
come  more  particularly  at  certain  seasons,  and  when  these 
times  are  known,  one's  excursions  may  be  planned  so  as  not 
to  meet  with  them  at  the  periods  of  greatest  abundance. 
In  ordinary  years,  there  are  usually  a  few  at  the  end  of 
May,  a  considerable  visitation  during  the  first  days  of  July, 
and  again  about  the  same  time  in  August  and  September. 
After  the  first  of  August,  or  at  most  the  first  few  days  in 
the  month,  the  mosquitoes  become  fairly  numerous  at  all 
times  on  the  meadows,  and  for  forty  or  fifty  days  it  is  well 
to  go  armed  with  a  branch  of  sweet  gum  or  bay  berry,  that 
may  be  switched  about  the  head.  The  periods  of  greatest 
abundance  are  about  thirty  days  apart,  the  first  and  the 
last  being  somewhat  more,  owing  to  the  cooler  weather. 
Occasionally  this  order  of  appearance  will  be  changed 
slightly,  as  after  the  exceptionally  warm  winter  of  1889-90, 
when  the  swarm  ordinarily  coming  in  July,  appeared  in  the 
latter  part  of  June. 

Staten  Island  has  been  denominated  "a  mosquito- 
infested  Isle,"  and  its  natives  are  said  to  develop  coriaceous 
skins,  only  the  fittest  surviving  However,  the  population 
has  increased ;  the  leathery  skinned  native  often  lives  to  be 
very  old  and  waxes  stout  if  he  gets  enough  to  eat,  and 
talks  back  most  energetically  at  all  who  have  aught  to  say 
against  his  home.  It  is  true  he  has  memories  of  mosqui- 
toes, such  as  the  visitation  of  July  3,  1863,  when  the 
vegetables  were  left  unpicked  in  the  gardens  for  a  week 
and  people  wore  mosquito  net  over  their  hats. 

At  the  time  of  this  plague  two  men  were  going  to  the 
ferry  landing;  one  of  them  with  a  net  over  his  hat,  the 


Pond-Meadow.  95 

other  depending  solely  upon  the  energy  of  his  arms,  and 
also,  very  likely,  upon  whiffs  of  tobacco  smoke,  to  keep 
the  armed  enemy  at  a  distance.  But  like  the  little  red 
savages  in  Sindbad's  voyage,  they  made  up  in  numbers 
what  they  lacked  in  individual  strength,  and  he  that  was 
provided  with  the  net,  led  his  unfortunate  companion  home 
by  the  hand,  where  proper  anointment  and  time  reduced 
the  swellings. 

In  those  pestiferous  days,  the  cornice  in  rooms  in  daily 
use  became  so  covered  by  mosquitoes,  that  it  appeared 
black  or  brown,  and  after  the  third  or  fourth  day,  when 
they  commenced  to  die,  they  were  swept  up  in  numbers 
on  the  floor.  Though  there  have  been  mosquito  years 
since  1863 — 1882  being  a  representative  of  the  series,  still 
there  has  been  nothing  equal  to  the  great  visitation. 

Mosquitoes  even  attack  turtles,  and  I  have  observed 
about  a  yellow-spotted  water-turtle,  quite  a  cloud  of  them 
that  wished  to  suck  his  half  warm  blood.  Sitting  on  a 
fence  one  day,  I  saw  a  tiny  ribbon-snake  in  the  grass,  and 
running  to  see  it  closer,  found  that  it  had  hidden  away. 
After  a  time  it  moved  and  glided  rapidly  through  the  grass 
stems.  I  picked  it  up  and  put  it  in  my  straw  hat,  and  it 
was  so  small  that  it  had  difficulty  in  getting  out  again.  A 
mosquito  discovered  it  and  tried  very  hard  to  get  its  pro- 
boscis in  between  the  scales,  but  finally  gave  it  up  and 
came  to  me. 

Both  the  male  and  female  mosquitoes  congregate  on  the 
flowers  of  the  wild  parsnip,  and  1  have  seen  individuals 
greatly  swollen  with  the  white  juice  that  they  had  extracted 
therefrom.  They  are  also  fond  of  the  sugar  mixtures  that 


96  The  Pond-Meadow. 

are  spread  on  trees  to  attract  moths,  and  sip  the  beer  and 
molasses  as  greedily  as  they  do  human  blood.  But  mos- 
quitoes in  the  winged  state  are  not  without  enemies,  and 
in  walking  across  the  meadows  I  have  been  attended  by 
one  of  the  larger  dragon  flies  (Aeschna),  that  flew  close 
about  me  and  captured  them  as  my  disturbing  feet  caused 
them  to  rise.  Sometimes  the  jaws  of  a  darning-needle 
may  be  heard  grating  against  each  other,  as  they  open 
and  shut  to  receive  the  tiny  Cukx. 

The  small  Berenice  dragon-fly,  occurs  in  vast  numbers 
on  the  meadows,  at  certain  seasons,  and  they  are  very 
useful  in  devouring  the  mosquitoes  at  headquarters.  At 
evening,  if  it  is  calm,  these  dragon  flies  settle  quietly  on 
the  grass  stems,  where  they  spend  the  night. 

Even  at  the  time  of  their  greatest  numbers,  the  wood- 
land and  meadow  scenes  may  be  enjoyed  by  climbing  a 
tree,  for  the  higher  you  ascend  the  less  abundant  is  Culex. 
The  trestle  itself  is  an  excellent  refuge  from  them,  they  can 
find  but  little  hiding  there,  and  one  walks,  as  it  were, 
through  the  meadow  grass  on  stilts. 

The  bitterns  were  once  numerous  on  the  pond-meadow, 
but  persecution  has  driven  most  of  them  away.  The  gun- 
ners stationed  themselves  at  evening  in  a  secluded  place, 
often  by  the  side  of  the  railroad  embankment  on  the  edge 
of  the  meadow,  and  when  the  slow-flying  bittern  came 
unsuspectingly  from  the  woods  over  the  opening,  he  was 
fired  at  from  below.  A  long  tongue  of  flame  shot  upward 
from  the  gun,  the  bittern  sometimes  screamed  most 
piteously  if  wounded,  and  the  large  yellow  eyes  flashed  fire 
as  he  lay  helpless  among  the  weeds.  One  summer  served 


The  Pond- Meadow.  97 

to  drive  most  of  these  daik  interesting  birds,  that  made  the 
night  more  gloomy,  away  from  the  vicinity  of  the  trestle. 
They  inhabited  the  meadows  from  April  to  November,  and 
at  mid-summer,  in  the  thickly-wooded  low-lands,  their 
voices  sounded  like  the  barking  of  a  puppy — a  particularly 
short  puck-puck. 

The  gunner's  dog  seemed  to  delight  in  rushing  pell-mell 
into  the  meadow  ditches  where  the  bitterns  fished  and 
frightening  not  only  them,  but  the  timid  creatures  that  had 
their  dwelling  there,  with  his  ponderosity  and  prodigious 
splashing.  It  was,  as  if  a  Minhocao — that  gigantic  worm- 
like  animal,  reported  to  turn  brooks  from  their  beds  in 
Brazil — came  plowing  through  one  of  our  quiet  rural 
villages. 

Dogs  care  naught  for  wet  feet,  though  they  will  shiver 
in  cold  weather,  after  coming  out  of  the  water,  but  if  the 
glee  of  the  moment  is  any  criterion,  they  seem  as  happy  as 
when  lying  in  front  of  the  fire.  Perhaps  the  violent  series 
of  shakes,  that  sends  the  water  flying  in  innumerable 
tangents  from  their  bodies,  has  an  exhilarating  influence 
that  we  humans,  who  are  incapable  of  such  gymnastics? 
know  not  of.  But  there  is  no  accounting  for  nature,  and 
the  best  we  can  do  is  to  observe  the  facts,  and  say  that 
matters  are  thus  and  so ;  that  frogs  delight  in  their  hourly 
bath,  Bruno  splashes  in  the  ditches  or  sits  by  the  fire,  and 
that  Tabby  is  displeased  if  she  even  so  much  as  wets  her 
feet.  If  she  goes  out  in  the  dewy  grass,  she  lifts  her 
feet  comically  high,  so  as  to  be  as  far  removed  from  the 
moisture  as  possible,  and  often  she  will  shake  her  legs 
violently.  When  there  is  snow  on  the  ground,  she  finds 


98  The  Pond-Meadow. 

walking  particularly  disagreeable,  and  the  high  lifting  and 
oft  shaking  of  the  feet  become  still  more  pronounced.  But 
I  must  say,  as  it  were  in  parenthesis,  that  I  once  saw  a  cat 
from  my  seat  on  the  trestle,  splashing  about  in  the  water, 
and  interesting  accounts  have  been  given  of  felines  that 
went  fishing,  and  dove  and  swam  with  evident  pleasure. 
Nevertheless  the  average  Tabby  is  averse  to  a  soaking,  and 
the  exceptions  to  the  rule  may  be  likened  to  that  fraternity 
of  tramping  naturalists,  who  spend  hours  in  ponds,  in 
swamps,  and  in  sundry  swaley  places. 

Domestic  fowls  are  also  averse  to  standing  in  water, 
and  are  generally  very  quick  to  seek  shelter  in  a  heavy 
rain.  If  it  is  not  a  complete  protection,  they  will  slope 
their  backs  considerably,  so  that  the  water  may  run  as 
speedily  as  possible  down  to  their  tails,  and  drip  off  on  the 
ground.  The  hen  that  goes  out  in  the  morning  after  a 
light  fall  of  snow,  walks  as  if  her  own  legs  were  borrowed 
ones,  and  that  she  was  learning  how  to  use  the  newly 
acquired  members.  She  lifts  her  feet  high,  looks  about 
circumspectly,  and  utters  a  "  my,  my  "  sort  of  chuckle,  and 
presently  goes  back  into  the  house  or  under  the  shed.  Thus 
do  wet  feet  prove  unpleasant  to  cats,  to  hens,  and  to  the 
majority  of  humans,  who  have  invented  rubber  shoes  so 
that  they  may  keep  out  of  the  water  when  they  go  in  it. 
Even  barefooted  boys  have  to  exercise  an  effort  to  go 
through  a  puddle,  and  if  they  are  thinking  about  some- 
thing else,  their  instinct  is  to  go  round. 

There  are  times  of  the  year  when  the  earth  seems  to 
have  become  semi-aqueous,  and  the  hill-sides  and  the 
vales  are  soaking  wet,  and  the  little  brooks  go  wandering 


The  Pond-Meadow.  99 

from  their  beds.  Those  who  go  into  the  woods  only  in 
Summer,  have  no  idea  how  inundated  they  are  at  the  sea- 
son of  Spring,  and  the  places  where  they  walked  dryly  on 
the  mossy  carpet,  or  sat  on  the  scrawny  roots,  are  covered 
knee-deep  by  dark  mysterious  pools  that  reflect  the  tree 
trunks  from  their  placid  surfaces. 

Then  again  in  the  Fall,  when  even  the  village  walks 
are  strewn  thick  with  leaves,  and  the  rain  comes  pattering 
down  for  days  at  a  time,  there  is  no  escaping  the  general 
distribution  of  water,  and  by-and-by  you  feel  it  making  its 
way  through  your  shoes.  First  one  foot,  whose  shoe  is 
not  quite  as  tight  as  its  neighbor,  becomes  a  little  wet,  or 
perhaps  you  precipitate  matters  by  stepping  into  a  puddle, 
and  you  feel  the  cool  water  come  suddenly  in.  After  that 
you  don't  care ;  you  give  over  your  former  circumspection 
and  go  plodding  along  in  a  mood  of  indifference.  The 
first  puddle  seems  uncommonly  cold,  but  after  your  shoes 
and  stockings  get  thoroughly  saturated,  it  makes  little 
difference,  as  regards  temperature,  how  many  more  puddles 
you  step  into.  There  is  certainly  a  limit  of  absorption, 
and  the  water  next  to  your  epidermis,  becomes  warm,  and 
whether  from  its  cosy  retreat  or  from  whatever  cause,  I 
cannot  say,  it  nevertheless  prevents  the  general  inrush  01 
its  cooler  brother  molecules.  Thus  it  is  the  first  wetting  that 
makes  you  draw  your  breath  hastily  between  your  teeth,  and 
after  that,  you  wait  for  the  water  to  get  warm,  for  should 
we  not  ever  be  turning  our  mishaps  into  pleasantries,  or 
at  least  make  the  best  of  the  rain  that  is  showered  so 
liberally  upon  us  all  ? 

A   pipe-line,    bringing  petroleum   from    Pennsylvania, 


loo  The  Pond-Meadoiv. 

runs  across  a  little  swamp  on  the  borders  of  the  meadow, 
and  there  the  bitterns  often  stationed  themselves,  and  sat 
silently  watching  the  surface  of  the  water.  One  summer 
that  portion  of  the  pipe  that  was  lain  in  the  salt  meadow, 
was  dug  up  for  the  purpose  of  being  cleaned  and  boxed, 
and  placing  my  ear  to  its  side,  I  could  hear  the  slow  flow- 
ing oil  within. 

Where  the  meadow  meets  the  upland  there  is  a  proces- 
sion of  flowers,  and  at  mid-summer  the  array  is  particularly 
splendid.  The  turk's  cap  lilies  make  its  edge  quite 
gorgeous  in  August,  and  later  the  sunflowers  cause  it  to  be 
still  more  gay.  The  upland  has  a  golden  fringe,  the 
meadow  a  yellow  border. 

The  purple  bonesets  are  conspicuous  at  the  end  of  the 
trestle  in  season,  intermixed  with  the  giant  sunflowers  and 
the  golden  rods — the  royal  colors  of  purple  and  gold. 
Probably  no  single  species  of  flower  gives  a  greater  and  more 
wide-spread  splendor  to  the  low-lands,  than  does  the  purple 
boneset.  It  stands  often  seven  feet  high,  and  as  a  little 
man  walks  beside  it,  is  it  any  wonder  that  he  should  open 
wide  his  eyes  at  its  glory,  and  marvel  at  the  growth  of  a 
single  summer  ?  The  equally  tall  swamp  thistle,  with  pur- 
ple flowers  that  match  the  bonesets  in  hue,  and  also 
with  a  maroon  stem,  likewise  grows  along  the  edge  of  the 
meadow.  Its  prickly  arms  stretch  about  it,  and  bid  you  let 
it  alone,  or  at  least  to  handle  it  gently.  "  Go  round,"  says 
the  thistle,  "  touch  me  not,"  and  it  sways  gently  in  the 
breeze.  A  bumble-bee  burys  itself  as  deeply  as  it  can  in 
the  soft  heads,  and  the  heads  that  have  gone  to  seed  are 
pulled  apart  by  the  yellow-birds,  and  the  downy-winged 


The  Pond-Meadow.  101 

seeds  fly  away.  Thus  does  the  thistle  have  to  pay  a  little 
— have  to  give  the  yellow  birds  and  the  bumble-bees 
something  to  help  it  along  in  the  world,  but  it  wants  you, 
to  "  go  round." 

The  tall  meadow-rue,  the  swamp  milk-weed,  the  cardi- 
nal lobelia  and  the  Canada  burnet,  also  blossom  in  turn  at 
the  end  of  the  trestle  where  the  up-land  meets  the  meadow, 
and  a  few  hundred  feet  away,  the  blazing-star  grows  in 
abundance.  The  long  spikes  of  purple  flowers,  blooming 
from  the  top  downward,  are  indeed  "  blazing-stars  "  in  the 
meadow. 

There  is  always  this  narrow  zone  of  plants  and  high 
growing  grass,  close  to  the  woods,  and  its  appearance  does 
not  suggest  at  first  any  such  strife  as  we  know  is  going  on 
there.  Yet  here  the  limits  of  certain  species  are  most 
forcibly  shown,  and  we  see,  in  spite  of  the  peaceful  aspect, 
the  continuous  struggle  among  them.  Occasionally  there 
is  a  lone  tree  growing  further  in  the  grass  than  the  rest,  a 
poor  stunted  representative  of  its  kind.  If  it  be  a  sour-gum, 
as  is  often  the  case,  some  of  its  leaves  turn  crimson  by 
mid-summer.  This  meadow  tree  is  a  favorite  with  the 
birds ;  they  fly  out  from  the  edge  of  the  woods,  perch  upon 
it,  and  then  fly  back  again.  It  is  only  at  morning  and  at 
evening,  that  a  correct  idea  can  be  formed  of  their  number. 

This  winding,  turning  line,  where  the  upland  meets  the 
meadow,  must  ever  be  an  interesting  territory ;  it  is  so 
broken,  opening  up  such  unexpected  views;  the  line  is  a 
zig-zag,  and  it  has  followed  the  pattern  of  the  meadow 
creek  itself. 

I  made  a  roost  on  the  border  of  the  pond-meadow,  in  a 


102  The  Pond-Meadow. 

swamp-oak  and  a  young  cedar,  by  placing  a  rail,  that  I 
found  in  the  grass,  from  one  to  the  other.  It  was  flat  and 
solidly  fixed  in  the  trees,  and  withal  made  a  confortable 
seat,  where  I  might  go  in  the  late  afternoon,  and  look  over 
the  meadow.  Perched  above  the  grass  as  I  was,  I  received 
only  the  partial  attention  of  the  mosquitoes,  though  now 
and  then  one  flew  away  heavily  laden. 

From  my  perch  the  masts  of  the  vessels  on  the  Sound 
were  visible  in  the  distance  among  the  trees,  and  anon  they 
would  appear  across  the  open  meadow,  and  move  along  as 
if  they  glided  through  the  grass  itself.  The  large  flowered 
Sabbatia  starred  the  grass  in  August  at  the  base  of  the 
tree,  and  meadow  mice  often  rummaged  about  among 
the  pink  blossoms.  A  catbird  lit  on  the  perch  beside  me, 
one  afternoon,  a  yard  away,  but  it  staid  only  a  moment. 
Once  a  white-eyed  vireo  came  within  arm's  length,  ex- 
asperated that  after  all  its  scolding  I  had  not  become 
afraid  and  gone  away.  The  chickadees  also  visited  the 
oak  tree,  and  in  addition  to  the  note  from  whence  they  get 
their  name,  and  the  plaintive  long-drawn  t — d,  gave  expres- 
sion to  those  more  conversational  utterances  that  they 
bestow  upon  one  another.  Thus  they  said  very  plainly, 
and  as  it  were  with  a  jerk,  we-three,  we-three,  and  such-as- 
we,  such-as-we.  The  chickadee  is  commonly  a  preoccupied 
bird;  is  always  busy  about  its  own  affairs,  and  gives  you 
but  little  heed.  One  chickadee  is  a  cure  for  the  blues;  the 
only  time  that  it  becomes  plaintive  is  when  it  utters  its 
/ — d  note,  chiefly  in  the  gladsome  and  sunny  hours  of 
Spring. 

At  times  a  night-hawk  appeared  against  the  sun-set  sky, 


The  Pond-Meadow.  103 

and  went  through  his  gymnastics  with  the  red  clouds  for  a 
background;  and  a  harvest-fly  would  occasionally  zie  as 
if  half  asleep,  having  lost  all  of  the  zest  of  the  noontide 
hours.  A  mink  came  one  afternoon  and  sniffed  about  the 
grass  stems  and  bushes  at  the  base  of  the  tree,  and  once  I 
saw  one  cross  the  railroad  track,  and  watched  the  serpentine 
undulations  of  his  long  and  lithe  body,  as  he  prowled  about 
the  edge  of  a  pool,  spreading  consternation  among  the 
frogs.  One  almost  despairs  of  any  goodness  in  nature, 
after  looking  a  mink  in  the  face. 

The  slanting  rays  of  the  setting  sun  often  shed  a  mild 
peaceful  glory  about  the  perch  and  many  of  the  patches  of 
humble  flowers  in  the  woods  behind.  The  sun  gilds  a  par- 
ticular leaf  or  branch  in  the  woods  and  we  then,  as  it  were, 
see  the  sun's  shine,  whereas  its  light  is  generally  so  omni- 
present, that  we  do  not  take  special  cognizance  of  it. 

As  I  watched  from  the  perch,  a  haze  often  brooded 
over  the  meadow  and  dimmed  the  view ;  it  nestled  down 
on  the  opposite  woodland  and  made  it  soft  and  dreamy. 
The  country  may  have  its  roads  and  be  mapped,  but  it  isn't 
thoroughly  explored.  There  is  no  need  of  a  far  away 
fairy-land,  for  the  earth  is  unknown  before  us — the  cow- 
paths  lead  to  mysterious  fields.  There  is  indeed  a  light  of 
fairy-land  in  the  thick  woods  at  sunset — a  golden  green — 
and  at  mid-summer  a  myriad  of  minor  songs,  a  constant 
tingling,  tingling.  Though  the  names  of  the  singers  may 
be  mentioned,  it  does  not  spoil  the  enchantment  or  lessen 
the  charm. 

Withal  the  perch  was  a  pleasant  place,  and  often  I  felt 
akin  to  a  bird,  as  if,  perhaps,  I  might  presently  fly  over  the 
pond-meadow  in  company  with  a  bittern. 


THE  PARKS. 


IT  is  reported  that  in  old  days,  while  the  Indians  still 
lived  on  the  dunes  and  open  sandy  ground  by  the 
pond-meadow,  that  a  settler  of  giant  stature  used  to 
stalk  about  the  woods  and  clearings,  and  when  the  natives 
saw  his  stalwart  form  approaching,  they  ran  from  fear. 
This  big,  burly  man  was  ever  accompanied  by  a  dwarfed 
son,  who  was  so  inseparably  attached  to  his  gigantic  sire> 
that  when  the  latter  died,  he  also  took  to  his  bed,  and  only 
survived  him  a  few  days.  Thus  the  barren  fields  are  not 
without  legendary  interest — the  giant  walked  there  and  the 
Indians  ran  away.  It  is  easy  to  conjure  up  the  scene  in 
those  twilight  hours,  when  the  globes  of  fluffy  milkweed 
seeds  lend  a  glamour  of  uncertainty,  and  invite  the  sprites 
and  dryads  of  the  woodland,  to  a  shadowy  procession. 

There  are  five  of  these  fields  that  were  once  cultivated, 
but  are  now  partly  overgrown  with  briers  and  young  trees, 
and  are  surrounded  on  three  sides  by  woody  hedges,  or  the 
woods  themselves.  My  companion  once  called  them  "  the 
parks."  In  several  of  the  fields  there  are  small  fairy  circles 
of  moss,  often  quite  exact  in  outline,  and  this  same  moss 
(Polytrichwri)  also  grows  in  one  of  the  parks,  on  the  little 
hills  where  corn  was  planted  many  years  ago.  The  field 


The  Parks.  105 

in  consequence  is  quite  regularly  decked  with  these  patches 
of  green,  darker  than  the  surrounding  grass.  Not  only  the 
moss,  but  also  white  birches  and  bushes,  have  grown  upon 
these  old  corn  hills,  and  the  trees  have  attained  consider- 
able size. 

In  one  of  the  parks  there  is  a  patch  of  wild  strawberries. 
The  bright  tinted  leaves  that  come  even  in  June,  attract 
your  attention  to  the  vines,  and  thus  often  lead  to  the  dis- 
covery of  the  berries.  When  the  grass  is  low  the  berries 
nestle  close  to  the  earth,  and  when  it  is  high,  they  are 
borne  on  long  stems.  If  the  ground  has  been  burned  over, 
the  berries  grow  luxuriantly,  and  seem  to  be  riches  springing 
from  poverty,  the  bright  red  fruit  among  the  black  and 
burned  stems.  The  best  way  to  eat  them,  especially  when 
they  are  small,  is  to  gather  several  and  put  them  into  your 
mouth  at  once,  the  flavor  is  intensified  thereby.  But  the 
strawberry  has  its  revenge  and  seems  to  say,  "  you  cannot 
part  me  from  my  calyx  and  bruise  me  so,  without  detection, 
you  shall  have  my  blood  on  your  hands,"  and  so  you  go 
away  with  crimson  fingers. 

There  are  generally  too  many  berries  for  the  birds  to 
eat.  Nature  is  like  a  kind  mother,  she  would  give  her 
children  plenty.  This  relation  of  the  birds  to  the  berries, 
each  deriving  a  benefit  from  the  other,  is  also  pleasing. 

It  seems  rather  dreadful  to  put  one's  big  splay  feet  into 
these  little  natural  strawberry  beds,  and  crush  most  clumsily 
the  nodding  fruit,  but  we  cannot  walk  without  committing 
great  havoc,  and  I  often  notice  where  I  have  trodden  down 
he  cities  of  the  ants. 

Later  come  the  bunch  cherries.     The  shining  black 


106  The   Parks. 

cherries  remind  one  of  bright  new  shoe  buttons,  but  my 
companion  has  said  it  was  shameful  to  compare  them  to 
such  things,  and  Pomona  would  not  be  pleased  if  she 
heard  me  say  it.  Indeed  she  did  not  forget  to  give  them  a 
decided  flavor — the  flavor  of  wild  cherries,  who  cannot 
remember  that  ?  You  taste  it  to  the  bottom  of  your 
stomach. 

Pomona  also  provides  huckleberries,  and  the  cat-birds, 
as  a  short  cut  to  them,  build  their  nests  in  the  bushes,  and 
often  scold  me,  if  I  appear  at  the  other  end  of  the  patch. 

Still  later  come  the  apples,  borne  on  a  few  twisted 
sprawling  trees  standing  in  one  of  the  parks,  and  surrounded 
by  cedars,  by  oaks,  and  by  other  indigenous  growth.  I  do 
not  think  the  fruit  would  bring  a  high  price  in  the  market, 
but  it  is  far  too  good  to  send  there,  it  serves  a  better  pur- 
pose where  it  is.  It  is  not  always  well  to  send  all  the 
apples  to  market,  or  pick  all  the  nuts  from  a  tree — you  do 
not  then  get  the  best  they  can  give  you. 

The  ants  run  about  under  the  apple  trees,  and  what  an 
important  matter  to  them  is  this  falling  off  of  the  fruit. 
Who  can  tell  if  many  are  not  killed  so ;  they  run  a  great 
risk.  Probably  the  universal  eye  beholds  the  meteors 
falling  to  the  Earth,  as  often  as  we  see  the  apples  descen- 
ding to  the  ground,  and  yet  men  are  not  killed  by  them, 
the  land  and  the  sea  are  so  wide.  Thus,  perhaps,  it  rarely 
happens,  that  an  ant  is  crushed  to  death  beneath  an  apple 
tree. 

Some  of  the  apple  trees  look  aflame  with  their  fruit, 
and  the  ground  is  speckled  red.  How  pleasing  are  the 
little  dots  on  the  rosy  skin,  they  seem  to  be  made  for 


The  Parks.  107 

beauty's  sake  alone.  September  is  indeed  the  harvest  time ; 
the  apples  falling  from  the  trees — the  fruit  of  the  Earth 
constantly  pelting  their  poor  old  mother. 

When  I  compare  mentally  the  early  autumn  scenes  that 
I  can  remember;  call  to  mind  the  vivid  red  of  the  sumach 
leaves,  the  dark  blue  lobelias,  and  that  singing,  singing, 
that  continuous  song  of  the  insects,  I  am  impressed  how 
life  for  us  all,  is  the  same.  That  gradual  change  of  the  ages 
does  not  effect  the  life  of  man  more  than  it  does  the  cricket 
of  this  Summer,  and  if  I  had  lived  a  thousand  years  ago,  or 
should  walk  the  fields  a  thousand  years  to  come,  the  scenes 
would  be  the  same. 

It  is  good  to  ramble  in  the  autumn  fields,  in  one  of  the 
barren  sandy  nooks  where  the  sweet-fern  grows,  and  where 
a  sad  pleasant  flavored  joy,  seems  to  pervade  all  about  you. 
With  dextrous  throws  you  bring  down  the  apples,  and 
though  they  may  be  gnarled  and  puny,  you  eat  them  with 
a  relish,  for  they  seem  such  free  gifts  from  nature.  They 
come  without  the  asking  or  the  toil,  like  the  persimmons, 
or  the  strawberries  in  the  field. 

Autumn  colors  the  barren  ground  vegetation  very  early 
with  the  deepest  dye,  and  as  we  are  taller  than  most  of  the 
plants  that  grow  on  the  sand,  we  may  look  over  them,  and 
thus  get  a  wide  and  varied  view.  The  Virginia  creeper 
runs  flaming  red  along  the  ground,  and  the  sumachs, 
the  cat-briers  and  the  poison  ivy  vines,  are  most  vividly 
colored. 

Perhaps  the  most  curious  tint  of  all  the  autumnal 
show  is  the  greenish-white  leaves  of  the  bitter-sweet 
vine,  that  are  speckled  with  yellow.  They  have  an  odd 


108  The   Parks. 

appearance,  for  all  about  them  the  leaves  have  turned  to 
most  vivid  colors,  while  they  alone  have  assumed  so  white 
and  ghostly  a  shade.  In  the  chestnuts  and  some  of  the 
oaks,  the  green  color  remains  longest  near  the  mid-rib,  and 
in  the  oaks  it  is  often  a  deep  olive  shade,  and  greatly  adds 
to  the  beauty  of  the  turning  leaf.  The  wild  cherry  trees 
color  an  orange  red,  and  the  seedling  cultivated  cherries 
are  flushed  with  red  and  look  to  be  in  a  fever.  The  chest- 
nut-oaks turn  a  light  yellow,  as  do  the  chestnut  trees  and 
the  hickories. 

There  is  a  vividness  of  color  in  many  of  the  leaves  that 
seems  almost  supernatural,  and  it  is  plain  that  we,  who  live 
and  grow  old  on  the  Earth,  can  never  cease  to  wonder  at 
the  yearly  display.  "  Look,"  says  the  little  boy,  "  at  that 
Virginia  creeper,"  and  in  manhood  he  points  again  in 
wonderment  at  the  flaming  red  vine  in  the  cedar  tree. 

The  swamp-oaks  grow  in  numbers  in  the  sandy  soil, 
which  is  not  very  dry  a  yard  or  more  below  the  surface. 
It  nevertheless  produces  an  effect  upon  the  trees,  whose 
horizontal  branches  start  close  to  the  ground,  often  resting 
upon  it,  and  whose  leaves  are  finer  and  more  incised  than 
when  the  trees  stand  in  a  richer  soil.  The  cat-brier 
(Smilax  glauca)  that  grows  on  the  dunes,  also  shows  the 
effect  of  the  sandy  ground,  and  the  vines  have  larger  and 
more  frequent  tubers  for  the  storage  of  moisture  and 
nourishment,  than  when  they  grow  in  wetter  situations. 

The  semi- woodland  pastures  and  barren  fields  are 
favorite  haunts  of  the  doves,  and  often  they  coo  in  the 
cedar  trees,  or  come  flying  by  with  whistling  wings.  The 
far-away  voice  of  the  dove ! — no  bird  note  gives  such 


The  Parks.  109 

an  impression   of  distance  as  the  long  ac-koo  of  the  dove. 

A  few  leaves  still  remain  in  November  and  fall  from 
the  trees  ghosts  of  their  former  selves.  It  causes  a  twinge 
of  regret  to  see  a  lone  weak  butterfly  flit  across  a  field  on 
its  last  excursion,  or  to  see  an  old  tree  die ;  but  the  drop- 
ping of  the  dead  leaves  in  Autumn,  though  a  part  of  the 
funeral  procession  of  the  year,  does  not  bring  the  same 
feeling.  Yet  it  is  as  natural  for  the  tree  as  the  leaf  to  die, 
and  perhaps  it  is  only  that  the  dead  leaves  are  so  common, 
their  graves  are  everywhere,  whereas  the  butterfly  and  the 
old  orchard  tree,  with  its  last  apple,  appeal  more  directly 
to  our  attention — they  are  greater  deaths. 

Often  on  a  Sunday,  while  seated  in  the  sun  on  the 
open  sandy  ground,  I  have  heard  the  distant  church 
bells.  I  noticed  that  the  tolling  of  the  bell  was  regulated 
by  the  breathing  of  the  ringer,  with  each  inspiration  he 
pulled  the  rope. 

The  best  preaching  of  a  church  is  often  done  by  its 
bell.  They  call  it  a  relic  of  barbarism,  or  at  least  of  the 
times  before  watches  and  clocks,  but  they  who  speak  thus 
slightingly  have  never  sat  alone  and  listened  to  the  distant 
tolling  of  the  bells.  There  is  a  rhyme,  a  cadence  of  the 
bells,  they  talk  out  with  their  tongues  and  preach  sermons 
in  sound. 

The  bells  of  Elizabethport  across  the  kill,  answered  to 
those  of  Mariner's  Harbor,  and  their  different  tones  seemed 
to  speak  different  desires.  Like  living  things  they  too 
seemed  to  have  desires.  Did  they  call  come,  come,  or  was 
it  hark,  hark  ?  I  interpreted  it  as  the  latter,  for  nature 
would  never  have  you  run  wildly  about  the  world,  she  is 


no  The   Parks. 

sufficient,  right  about  you.     Morally  she  preaches  the  same 
sermon  everywhere. 

There  is  indeed  a  solemnity  in  the  meadows  and  in 
the  woods  like  the  tolling  of  a  bell — the  tolling  of  a  bell  in 
the  night — and  it  is  our  own  fault  if  the  scene  does  not 
touch  us  deeply. 


THE  TURNPIKE   ROAD. 


1HAVE  rambled  along  the  Turnpike  road  so  often, 
the  experiences  have  become  so  blended  together, 
that  now,  to  think  over  them  is  like  the  remem- 
brance of  a  year.  Time  has  rounded  it  all,  and  woven 
and  interwoven  the  scenes.  Here  and  there  a  bright 
colored  bird  perches  on  the  trees,  or  an  unknown  moth 
hovers  over  the  blackberry  blossoms  in  June,  and  the  day 
is  vividly  recalled,  for  it  is  most  often  the  occasional,  the 
unexpected,  that  plows  deepest  furrows  in  the  memory. 
And  then  there  are  sunny  hours  that  shine  forth,  though 
they  do  not  differ  from  the  common  passing  ones  by  any 
outward  sign,  yet  their  memory  is  ensured,  for  it  is  some- 
times the  glow  within  us,  and  not  always  external  happen- 
ings, that  leaves  a  lasting  impression.  Thus  there  is  a 
Turnpike  of  memory  that  is  not  the  same  as  the  actual 
road,  and  is  different  to  each  one  of  us.  It  is  a  gradual 
growth,  an  accumulation  of  experiences  and  those  memory 
pictures  that  are  never  repeated  in  all  of  their  details.  If 
we  ramble  along  the  highway  we  not  only  see  what  is 
there  to-day,  but  not  being  free  to  leave  the  past  behind, 
an  array  of  trivialities  and  more  weighty  reminiscences, 
come  trooping  by  our  side,  for  we  have  traveled  before 
with  them  on  the  Turnpike  road. 


112  The    Turnpike   Road. 

The  every-day  wayside  scenes — the  common  pictures 
of  common  life,  though  they  live  long  in  the  mind,  yet 
they  are  difficult  to  describe  -with  all  of  the  reality  that 
they  seem  to  wear.  Perhaps  the  sun  shines  obliquely, 
across  the  stony  hill,  upon  the  houses  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  way,  and  as  the  curtains  wave  in  the  open  windows, 
an  occasional  glimpse  is  offered  of  the  little  parlor  within, 
of  the  books  arranged  after  a  certain  plan  on  the  table, 
and  of  the  motto,  knit  in  worsted  over  the  door,  for  there 
is  a  conventional  parlor  as  there  is  a  style  in  dress.  Or, 
perchance,  there  is  an  imprint  of  a  child's  naked  foot  in  the 
soft  earth  by  the  wayside ;  or  a  little  girl  stops  you  and 
inquires  if  you  have  seen  her  mother,  and  looks  with 
pitiful  amazement  when  she  finds  you  are  not  a  family 
acquaintance. 

The  houses  crowd  about  the  base  of  the  round  topped 
hill,  that  overlooks  the  village  and  the  bay.  With  its 
steep  rocky  sides  it  keeps  the  dwellings  from  scrambling 
up,  so  at  least  we  can  get  a  long,  uninterrupted  outlook 
from  its  top.  The  Camberwell  butterflies  come  from  under 
the  loose  stones  on  its  side,  in  early  spring,  and  their  wings 
rattle  against  them,  as  they  fly  with  weak,  uncertain  flight. 
The  first  butterfly  of  Spring,  but  a  remnant  of  the  old  year 
— all  the  yellow  faded  out  of  the  borders  of  her  wings  dur- 
ing the  long  winter  sleep. 

What  a  curious  phase  of  existence  is  this  sleeping  and 
awakening;  to  hibernate  through  all  the  winter  days,  and 
to  gradually  be  ushered  into  active  life  again  by  the 
warming  sun.  There  is  a  peace,  a  quietness  and  a  mys 
tery,  that  attaches  itself  to  the  lives  of  these  lone  waifs  of  a 


The    Turnpike   Road,  113 

by-gone  year,  and  you  remember  all  of  the  winter  storms, 
and  marvel  that  these  fragile  beings  should  have  survived 
among  the  rocks  on  the  hill-side. 

When  the  butterflies  leave  their  winter  dwellings,  then 
mankind  leave  their  dwellings  too,  and  many  an  unfortu- 
nate fellow  creature  labors  with  his  goods  on  the  Turnpike 
road.  It  is  amusing  from  an  ultra-social  point  of  view,  to 
see  him  moving.  He  stands  in  front  of  his  house  among 
all  his  effects.  He  inspects  a  chair  and  then  a  table,  and 
is  very  solicitous  concerning  an  old  leather  bag  acquired  in 
his  youth.  It  is  as  the  actions  of  a  squirrel;  as  if  he 
came  out  of  his  nest  with  a  shaving  in  his  mouth,  and  said : 
"  Sir,  this  is  part  of  my  bed,  I  would  have  you  know  that 
I  have  property."  But  it  is  well  to  be  solicitous  concern- 
ing an  old  leather  bag  or  a  shaving;  we  must  love  some- 
thing or  languish  as  an  unhappy  member  of  the  school  of 
despair. 

The  stage  coach  once  rumbled  along  the  Turnpike, 
carrying  passengers  and  mail  across  the  Island  to  the 
New  Blazing  Star  landing  on  the  Sound.  It  was  one  of 
the  highways  between  New  York  and  Philadelphia,  and  no 
doubt  many  Van  Cortlands,  De  Peysters  and  Bleeckers 
admired  the  autumnal  tints,  or  the  greenness  of  spring,  as 
they  jogged  along  the  serpentine  hills. 

The  boulders  by  the  roadside,  and  a  few  old  houses, 
are  the  surviving  monuments  of  the  time,  for  with  one  of 
two  exceptions  the  ancient  trees  have  been  cut  down.  But 
the  Turnpike  has  still  the  same  trend,  and  we  may  wander 
from  bay  to  kill,  on  the  journey  that  has  so  often  been  per- 
formed. But  alas,  our  simple  experiences  do  not  bring  all 


114  The    Turnpike  Road. 

that  they  should  to  us,  we  walk  carelessly  and  unobserving. 
The  old  red  Turnpike  road,  even  when  tenanted  by  all  of 
fancy's  picturings,  is  probably  far  less  marvelous  than  any 
single  year  of  its  truthful  history  which  must  remain 
unknown. 

If  we  slop  along  the  muddy  road,  we  are  apt  to  think 
of  it  only  as  muddy,  and  not  consider  all  that  it  means. 
It  is  well  to  call  vividly  to  mind  how  a  particular  reach 
appears  at  different  seasons;  how  it  looks  on  a  bright 
June  afternoon,  a  dark  November  day,  when  frozen  as 
hard  as  adamant  in  Winter,  and  when  it  lies  in  muddy 
stretches.  Plod,  plod,  have  been  the  foot-steps  along  it 
these  many  years,  and  the  dust  and  the  mud — perhaps  this 
same  mud,  mixed  for  the  one  hundredth  winter — has  be- 
daubed many  a  pedestrian.  When  we  think  of  this  we 
straightway  fall  to  dreaming,  and  walk  on  truly  historic 
ground. 

The  Indians  Quervequeen,  Aquepo,  Sachemack  and 
their  comrades,  from  whom  Governor  Lovelace  purchased 
the  Island,  once  hunted  where  now  runs  the  Turnpike 
road.  Little  did  they  dream  that  the  fanner's  lumbering 
wagon  would  slowly  climb  the  hill-side,  and  meander  along 
where  stood  these  almost  insurmountable  barriers  of  rocks 
and  trees,  and  little  did  they  think  either  of  the  roisterly 
laughter  of  the  pic -nickers,  and  of  those  drunken  and 
hilarious  shouts  that  are  uttered  by  the  savages  of  civili- 
zation. 

A  murderer  buried  his  wife  in  the  hollow,  and  nearby, 
the  cemetery  bell  often  solemnly  tolls  with  funeral  sadness, 
as  the  carriages  leave  the  highway  and  approach  the  open 


The    Turnpike   Road.  115 

grave.  An  old  woman  drove  her  vegetable  wagon  along 
the  road,  and  sat  crying  as  she  urged  her  horse  onward, 
for  while  she  was  in  the  village  below,  her  husband  had 
died.  "  Ah !  my  old  man,  he  die,  he  die,  while  I  down 
there,"  and  she  pointed  in  the  direction  of  the  village  with 
her  whip.  Thus  do  the  shouts  of  the  revellers,  the  sobs 
and  the  funeral  bell,  chime  in  the  memory,  and  a  wondrous 
song  is  heard  on  the  Turnpike  road. 

The  wind  blows  and  the  dead  leaves  skip  about  sem- 
bling  butterflies  in  their  motions.  A  mullein  plant  fresh 
and  green,  has  a  favored  situation  on  the  sunny  side  of  a 
tree  stump.  When  you  unfold  the  soft  downy  leaves,  you 
think  you  see  the  face  of  Summer  there,  but  it  is  only  a 
dream.  Little  insects  have  tucked  themselves  in  the  soft 
warm  bed,  formed  by  the  overlaying  of  these  mullein  leaves, 
and  thus  await  the  sun.  What  marvelous  faith  have  they, 
everything  is  well  to  them,  and  though  we  complain  of  the 
long,  long,  cold  winds,  yet  they  wait  patiently  in  the  mullein, 
and  go  abroad  on  the  sunny  day  that  is  sure  to  come. 

In  a  hollow  stump  the  sorrel  grows,  spreading  its  tender 
leaves  on  the  ground.  It  is  protected  from  the  weather 
by  the  walls  of  wood,  and  the  sun  shines  for  a  little  while 
each  day  through  the  open  at  the  top ;  but  the  leaves  are 
not  quite  so  sour  to  the  taste,  not  quite  so  potent,  as  those 
matured  in  the  open  field. 

How  strangely  the  cold  and  stormy  days  follow  close 
to  the  bright  and  even  warm  ones.  The  little  pools  by  the 
wayside,  look  smiling  and  sunny  on  a  spring  day,  when,  lo  I 
on  the  morrow,  they  are  frozen  over,  and  their  surface 
becomes  beautifully  marbled.  The  curved  lines  and  streaks 


116  The    Turnpike  Road. 

in  the  ice,  would  make  a  fair  pattern  for  the  laying  out  of 
walks  and  rambles  in  a  public  park.  When  the  snow  falls 
among  the  cedar  trees,  the  effect  is  pleasing,  the  green  and 
the  white  make  a  pretty  contrast.  If  the  sun  is  shining  the 
scene  is  enhanced,  for  there  are  sun-snows,  as  well  as  sun- 
showers.  The  little  flakes  descending  among  the  dead 
plants  by  the  road-side,  make  a  gentle  rustle,  as  they  fall 
against  the  withered  leaves.  The  close  cropped  pastures 
look  particularly  beautiful,  after  the  snow ;  they  present 
one  uninterrupted  immaculate  surface.  Most  of  the  fields, 
however,  have  many  weeds  and  tall  grasses,  which  show 
more  conspicuously  against  the  pure  white  background 
than  they  did  before.  The  crows  appear  blacker  when  the 
snow  lies  on  the  ground  than  at  any  other  time,  and  it  is 
also  most  profitable  then,  "  to  walk  in  another's  footsteps." 
Every  man  helps  to  wear  the  path,  as  musk-rats  do  in 
the  meadow-grass. 

The  foot-prints  of  the  inquisitive  dogs,  that  ran  from 
their  masters,  to  where  the  mice  had  been  in  the  night, 
show  plainly ;  and  the  tiny  tracks  of  the  mice  themselves, 
about  the  dead  stems  of  the  asters  and  golden-rods,  indicate 
their  efforts  to  secure  the  seeds. 

You  can  see  where  one  wagon  has  turned  out  to  let 
another  pass ;  even  where  they  have  stopped,  perhaps  to 
talk  and  ask  the  news.  The  snow  silently  records  the 
wanderings  of  every  creature,  and  tells  of  his  purpose  and 
his  vagaries.  A  dog  led  by  some  curious  knowledge,  or 
by  the  memory  of  a  former  visit,  before  the  snow,  trots 
across  the  field,  to  where  a  dead  member  of  his  species  lies. 
The  snow  records  his  great  excitement;  how  he  pranced 


The    Turnpike  Road.  117 

about  the  lifeless  body,  and  went  once  quite  close  to  its 
head,  and  then  ran  away  up  the  hill.  Perhaps  he  was 
touched  by  uncertainties  and  doubts,  akin  to  human  ones. 

It  is  the  general  impression  that  there  is  little  or  nothing 
to  see  of  animal  life  on  a  winter  ramble,  and  that  during 
the  dead  months,  as  they  are  called,  every  thing  is  truly 
dead.  There  are  books  on  nature,  that  take  great  pains 
to  point  out  this  seeming,  and  to  some  extent,  actual  error 
in  the  popular  mind,  but  though  it  is  true  that  there  are 
mice  and  birds,  and  even  flies  and  moth  abroad,  yet  it  is 
also  true,  that  we  walk  over  the  snow  as  a  man  in  the 
depths  of  night  along  the  main  street  of  the  village  when 
all  are  sleeping.  It  is  not  correct  to  call  Winter  the  season 
of  the  dead,  but  with  much  accuracy,  we  may  say,  that 
it  is  the  months,  or  days,  of  the  sleepers.  The  brown 
chrysalis  wrapped  in  withered  leaves  and  silk,  is  the  purple 
and  green  Luna  moth  of  June. 

The  cows  wander  along  the  hill-sides,  and  eat  bush 
twigs  and  the  dry  oak  leaves.  They  also  devour  the  red 
bunches  of  sumach  berries,  and  sometimes,  in  Summer,  the 
poison  ivy  yine.  The  cow  looks  well  among  the  bushes; 
stands  for  us  in  place  of  the  wild  deer,  and  the  other  brow- 
sing creatures  that  have  gone.  We  would  miss  them 
greatly,  and  a  Japanese  landscape  is  wanting  much,  in  its 
dearth  of  cattle.  Sometimes  she  scratches  her  head  with  a 
hind  leg,  and  then  the  mild  eyed  cow  loses  her  grace ;  she 
seems  to  be  trying  a  new  feat  in  gymnastics — a  new  one  to 
the  race  of  kine. 

The  bells  on  their  necks  sound  quaintly;  they  have 
even  a  sylvan  tone.  A  constant,  tingling,  tingling,  as  the 


118  The    Turnpike  Road. 

unseen  cows  meander  with  unsteady  gait  mid  the  birch  and 
cedar  trees  on  the  distant  hill-side.  A  little  bit  of  art  adds 
much  to  nature,  and  a  great  deal  of  nature  enhances  art. 
The  cow-bell  would  sound  a  discord  on  a  city  street. 

A  thick  patch  of  woods  by  the  road-side  has  lately  been 
cleared  away.  It  consisted  mainly  of  cedars  and  gums, 
and  a  most  luxuriant  growth  of  smilax.  The  wild  honey- 
suckle grew  there,  and  among  many  other  birds,  a  cardinal 
bred  every  year  in  the  tangle.  In  speaking  of  the  bird  the 
female  is  generally  forgotten,  or  if  mentioned,  it  is  said  that 
she  is  brown  only.  It  is  true  she  is  brown,  but  a  beautiful 
warm  brown,  and  then  her  bill  is  pink  as  if  to  make  a 
noticeable  contrast.  Once  while  sitting  in  a  cedar  tree  in 
a  swamp,  one  lit  close  by,  within  two  yards,  and  there  was 
a  good  opportunity  to  see  what  a  pretty  bird  she  was. 
When  the  males,  in  their  scarlet  coats,  hop  about  on  the  snow, 
you  are  impressed  with  the  sight,  you  are  not  apt  to  forget 
those  winter  days,  there  seems  to  be  something  unnatural 
in  all  this  bright  color  in  the  otherwise  sombre  thickets 
of  January. 

While  the  woodmen  were  chopping  the  trees,  a  male 
cardinal  flew  close  about  them,  for  the  axe  had  sounded 
so  many  days  in  his  favorite  haunt,  that  he  became  quite 
bold.  How  surprised  must  be  the  brown  thrushes,  and  the 
many  pairs  of  catbirds,  that  annually  rear  their  young  in 
a  tangle,  when  returning  in  hopeful  Spring,  they  find  the 
ground  cleared.  There  are  many  anxious  twitterings  then. 

But  it  is  the  all-consuming  fire,  and  not  the  axe,  that 
causes  the  most  damage  among  the  trees ;  it  is  the  smoke 
curling  up  between  the  hills,  that  brings  a  deeper  sigh  than 


The    Turnpike   Road.  119 

does  the  rhythmic  chop,chop,of  the  woodmen,  as  they  strike 
in  alternate  succession.  The  odor  of  the  burning  leaves  and 
grass,  is  like  the  fragrance  from  some  giant  pipe,  and  the 
smoke  goes  upward  in  great  clouds,  as  if  some  unseen 
sylvan  deity,  were  smoking  the  forest  leaves.  Thus  he 
puffs  and  puffs,  and  burns  the  withered  leaves  in  the  Fall; 
and  again  in  Spring  after  the  snow,  he  lights  his  pipe  once 
more.  Pussy  willows,  with  their  soft  and  downy  catkins ; 
azaleas,  with  their  pink  buds,  and  all  the  young  and  tender 
plants  that  promised  to  array  the  fields  with  the  freshness 
of  Spring,  are  burned  by  this  sylvan  smoker. 

It  commonly  takes  two  years  for  a  sufficient  growth  to 
spring  up  to  make  a  secure  winter  retreat  for  the  rabbits. 
But,  even  then,  they  are  rarely  secure,  and  they  spend 
much  of  their  time  in  fleeing  from  their  enemies.  Their 
ears  are  ever  open;  their  noses  twitch  in  their  efforts  to 
secure  the  latest  scent,  and  bunny  has  a  thousand  frights 
and  suspicions  in  a  day.  Nevertheless,  if  you  stand  still 
in  the  road,  at  evening,  she  may  come  within  a  few  feet, 
probably  mistaking  you  for  some  upstart  of  a  tree.  Maybe 
she  will  make  her  toilet  while  sitting  on  her  hind  legs  be- 
fore you,  seeming  all  the  time  quite  unconcerned  until, 
perhaps,  a  slight  motion,  a  gentle  swaying  of  your  body, 
attracts  her  attention,  when  she  bounds  most  wonderfully 
down  the  road. 

Unless  a  man  is  very  hungry,  it  is  a  shame  to  kill  poor 
bunny,  especially  where  her  kind  does  not  abound;  but  then 
man  is  ever  seeking  a  dinner,  and  it  is  only  a  sort  of  gas- 
tronomic etiquette,  that  prevents  many  a  mild  faced  little 
tabby,  from  getting  nearer  to  the  fire  than  the  hearth-stone. 


120  The    Turnpike  Road. 

It  is  a  blessing  that  the  road  is  not  neat,  that  is,  not 
neat  in  the  usual  sense.  The  small  trees,  the  black-berry 
bushes,  and  a  profusion  of  wild  flowers  that  pathetically 
bloom  and  die  in  their  season,  grow  in  many  places  along 
either  side.  No  grassy  margin  and  painted  fence,  could 
match  the  splendor  of  these  natural  hedges,  and  praises  be 
to  him,  who  might  have,  but  did  not  cut  them  down. 

There  are  a  few  pits  by  the  side  of  the  highway, 
where  treasure  was  buried,  near  to  a  large  stone  and  a 
forked  oak  tree.  At  night  a  man  came  with  a  lantern  and 
dug  as  silently,  as  stealthily  as  he  could,  in  great  hope  of 
finding  the  secret  store.  He  started,  no  doubt,  when  his 
pick  struck  the  hard  stones,  and  the  night  and  the  mission, 
made  his  pulse  run  high. 

Houseman,  and  his  negro  servant,  shortly  after  the 
Revolution,  dug  several  caverns  into  a  steep  hill-side,  and 
you  may  sit  at  the  mouth  of  one  of  the  caves,  now  sur- 
rounded by  undergrowth  and  trees,  and  see  the  passers-by 
on  the  Turnpike.  He  found  no  gold,  it  is  said,  only  dug 
these  holes  that  make  quiet  nestling  places  for  lonely 
ramblers,  where  they  may  sit  on  the  dry  dead  leaves, 
throw  their  coats  open  and  let  the  sun  beat  warmly  down. 
Many  wandering  creatures  take  advantage  of  their  shelter, 
for  they  are  favorites  with  the  woodland  tenantry. 

Wild  apple  trees  grow  down  the  lane  in  the  thicket. 
Two  of  them  bore  an  abundance  of  fruit  last  August; 
great  mellow  apples,  red  and  yellow  streaked,  and  the 
crickets  and  wild  mice  helped  to  devour  them.  When 
you  sit  under  the  tree  and  bite  deep  into  one  of  the  apples, 
disclosing  to  the  light  the  brown  seeds  that  have  been 


The    Turnpike   Road.  121 

hidden  in  the  white  pulp,  there  seems  to  be  a  kind  of 
a  zest  accompanying  the  proceeding,  a  happy  crackling  as 
if  the  apple  enjoyed  it  also.  That  is  the  reason,  it  is  held, 
that  the  pulp  is  there ;  it  makes  the  fruit  attractive,  and 
eating  it,  we  throw  the  core  away,  and  a  seedling  apple 
tree  grows  by  the  lane. 

Further  to  the  west,  is  a  small  village,  and  the  posters 
of  the  Salvation  Army  bedeck  the  fences  :  "  If  sinners 
entice  thee  consent  thou  not."  The  usual  corner  loungers 
bask  in  the  sun ;  there  is  a  busying  in  the  little  grocery, 
and  a  sound  of  laughter  in  the  tavern.  Though  boisterous 
laughter  may  bring  a  good  digestion  and  a  happy  hour, 
yet  it  seems  somewhat  inconsistent  with  nature.  Do  we 
ever  see  great  levity  in  the  hedge-row  ?  The  bird  sings 
merrily  in  the  tree,  while  his  mate  brings  a  luckless  cater- 
pillar to  feed  the  young,  and  with  one  look  we  see  the 
dark  and  light  spots  in  the  mosaic.  The  average  is  not  a 
joyful  scene,  neither  is  it  a  wholly  sad  one,  but  it  is  like 
our  own  minds  with  their  cloudy  and  sunny  hours,  with 
their  songs  and  discords. 

It  is  pleasant  to  buy  crackers  in  the  little  grocery  at 
evening,  at  the  close  of  a  long  May  day,  and  go  eating 
them  on  your  journey,  or  when  seated  on  the  fence,  while 
the  birds  are  singing.  The  Italian  laborers  come  in  a 
group  along  the  road  with  their  large  variously  colored 
bundles  slung  on  sticks  over  their  shoulders.  The  road  is 
red,  the  dog-woods  are  decked  in  white  blossoms  and  the 
sun  gilds  the  edges  of  the  black  clouds  behind  which  it  is 
setting. 

There  is  a  mysteriousness  about  the  commonplace  road 


122  The    Turnpike   Road. 

at  evening,  and  the  pale  geranium  blossoms,  that  nod  by 
the  wayside,  seem  but  the  ghosts  of  flowers.  The  grave- 
stones show  plainly  on  the  hill,  and  twilight,  death,  bird's 
songs  and  evening  rambles,  mix  themselves  into  that  in- 
explicable maze,  which  makes  the  beauty  and  the  substance 
of  a  dream. 

The  days  of  May  and  of  June  are  the  main-springs  of 
Summer.  To  go  afield,  is  like  attending  a  grand  show,  a 
visit  to  a  large  museum,  and  walking  hastily  through  its 
halls.  There  is  so  much,  that  you  become  bewildered,  it 
makes  your  head  ache.  The  plants  grow  up  and  bloom, 
while  it  seems  you  have  been  but  around  the  field.  At 
night  the  fog  comes  as  a  wall  of  mist  up  the  bay,  and  the 
trees  are  dripping  wet;  and  at  noon  the  sun  is  hot,  and 
the  leaves  and  branches  grow — fairly  bound  along  the  path 
of  life.  They  come  to  the  uphill,  about  the  first  of  July. 

There  are  many  dwellings  along  the  Turnpike  road, 
built  long  ago,  but  now  deserted,  and  falling  into  ruin. 
Their  grounds  offer  pleasant  rambling  places,  for  they  seem 
experienced  bits  of  mother  earth ;  first  wild,  then  culti- 
vated, and  now  running  wild  again.  Like  those  who  have 
traveled  much,  they  seem  capable  of  giving  advice.  It 
may  be  a  hard  saying,  but  it  is  a  truth,  as  gleaned  from 
them,  that  there  is  too  much  hope.  Men  are  unreasonably 
buoyed  up  in  spite  of  facts — think  that  no  doubt  all  will  be 
well  with  them,  and  so  plant  many  fields  and  build  innum- 
erable structures.  But  nature  has  no  care  on  which  face 
the  copper  falls,  because  it  makes  no  difference  to  nature 
and  it  is  the  same  with  every  artificial  hope,  it  is  as  likely 
to  end  one  way  as  another. 


The    Turnpike   Road.  123 

Nature  is  a  house  breaker.  She  will  pull  the  windows 
out,  knock  down  the  doors,  topple  over  the  chimney,  and 
will  finally  have  the  clap  boards  off,  or  the  stones  from  out 
the  wall. 

These  old  broken  down  buildings,  along  the  road,  were 
erected  mid  great  expectations,  and  their  blank,  dark  win- 
dows, now  look  solemnly  across  the  sunny  fields.  They 
lost  their  soul  when  they  lost  their  tenants.  The  smoke 
from  a  chimney  seems  to  tell  more  of  life  to  us,  than  even 
the  swallows  that  fly  swiftly  from  its  flues. 

Sometimes  these  houses  are  partly  inhabited,  one  or 
two  rooms  will  be  occupied  by  an  individual,  who  seems 
to  have  borrowed  his  character  from  the  domicile — to  be 
as  forlorn  as  the  structure  in  which  he  lives.  The  red- 
peppers  and  seed-corn  are  hung  under  his  porch,  and  the 
family  dog  and  cat,  and  the  chickens,  bask  in  the  sunshine, 
on  the  warm  dry  boards  by  his  door.  He  will  tell  you 
stories  of  long  ago,  when  he  was  a  young  man,  which  he 
says,  "wasn't  yesterday."  He  was  jolly  and  gay  then, 
for  he  used  to  visit  Cedar  Grove  nigh  every  night  with 
David  Playmore.  He  could  fiddle,  and  there  wasn't  any 
fun  without  music.  But  alas,  for  these  orgies,  David's 
head  began  to  twitch — he  was  always  a  nervous  fellow — 
and  the  doctor,  who  was  unfamiliar  with  Cedar  Grove,  said 
he  tied  his  necktie  too  tight,  it  stopped  the  circulation. 

So  the  old  man  chuckles ;  the  memories  of  his  revels 
amuse  him  still,  and  yet  he  is  half  ashamed  of  them,  does 
not  speak  so  openly  as  when  he  tells  of  the  cut  on  his 
hand,  which  he  got  while  chopping  wood. 

It  is  pleasant  at  lunch  time  to  seek  the  sunny  side  of  an 


124  The    Turnpike  Road. 

old  weathered  building,  or  hay  stack,  where  you  may  eat 
your  sandwich,  and  look  out  over  the  meadows  with  their 
silver  streak  of  a  kill,  for  where  the  Turnpike  road  runs  on 
the  crest  of  Long  Neck,  there  is  a  wide  and  uninterrupted 
view.  The  far  away  houses,  the  stacks  of  hay,  the  light 
and  dark  spots  caused  by  passing  clouds,  the  lines  of  trees 
running  down  to  the  meadow  edge,  and  the  lone  cedars, 
sycamores  and  apple  trees,  twisted  by  the  wind,  are  all 
interesting.  There  is  no  colder  place  in  Winter  than  these 
same  salt  meadows,  for  the  north  wind  has  an  uninterrupted 
sweep  across  them,  and  every  little  grass  stem  seems  to 
wave  it  on.  "  All  grass  is  dead  now,"  says  the  wind,  "  and 
I  have  no  heart,  let  all  things  freeze  on  the  meadow 
to-day." 

We  are  in  truth,  as  much  of  nature  as  the  grass  on  the 
meadows,  or  the  hardy  little  mice  and  the  song-sparrows 
along  its  edge,  and  so  we  ought  to  congratulate  ourselves, 
include  our  own  persons  in  the  praise  that  we  bestow  upon 
them  for  their  endurance. 

These  same  song-sparrows  should  put  our  occasional 
unhappiness  to  shame.  They  have  not  only  a  living  to 
gain,  but  they  are  beset  by  powerful  enemies;  a  hawk, 
that  pruner  of  the  avian  world,  must  needs  catch  some  of 
them  sooner  or  later.  The  early  colonists,  who  expected 
Indians  behind  the  tree-trunks,  lived  in  much  the  same 
trepidation. 

The  tightly-stretched  telegraph  wires,  along  the  road, 
are  played  by  the  wind ;  the  passing  breeze  is  turned  to 
music,  and  speeds  you  on  your  way.  To  the  ear  placed 
on  the  pole  it  hums  peculiarly,  as  if  far  away  beyond  the 


The    Turnpike   Road.  125 

hills,  there  was  an  endless  bridge,  over  which  a  heavy  train 
was  ever  passing,  and  you  heard  the  distant  rumbling 
sound. 

The  stage  coach  has  not  been  put  entirely  by ;  it  comes 
rattling  along  drawn  by  three  horses  abreast— a  ponderous 
vehicle  formerly  used  in  the  crush  and  the  jam  of  the  city. 
Now  in  its  old  age  it  is  granted  a  probation,  and  having 
proved  itself  unsmashable,  is  allowed  to  spend  its  declining 
years  on  the  Turnpike  road.  Before  the  time  of  Governor 
Tompkins,  the  highway  ran  differently  than  it  does  to-day ; 
it  passed  between  the  old  Ridgway  mansion  and  the  Fresh 
Kill  meadows,  to  the  only  house  beyond.  There  were  but 
three  or  four  families  living  on  the  Neck  then,  and  they 
enjoyed  almost  an  insular  seclusion,  like  the  lone  farm 
house  that  now  stands  on  "  Price's  Island,"  that  curious 
rise  in  the  meadows,  near  the  Fresh  Kill.  It  gathers  its 
chief  interest  from  its  peculiar  situation.  Even  the  house- 
hold cat  seems  wilder  there,  and  runs  up  an  apple  tree 
when  you  approach,  and  the  poor  disabled,  ridge-backed 
horses,  stare  like  creatures  of  another  world,  for  they  are 
seldom  disturbed  in  their  solitary  haunts.  The  salt  meadow 
roundabout  has  been  the  occasion  of  endless  bickering  and 
dispute;  the  unconscious  waving  grass  has  caused  much 
unhappiness  among  the  inhabitants.  There  was  once 
sufficient  meadow  for  all,  and  the  assessors  did  not  consider 
the  entire  acreage  in  their  levy.  The  marsh-wrens  and  the 
cackling  dabchicks,  alone  claimed  absolute  ownership. 
But  with  the  fences  came  the  unhappy  quarrels,  and  among 
the  inhabitants  of  a  scantily-settled  district,  disagreements 
are  most  distressing.  The  solitude  nurses  their  woe,  it 


126  The    Turnpike   Road. 

changes  their  character  and  leads  to  perpetual  broodings. 
As  the  wind  that  sighs  in  the  pines  at  the  door  seems  to 
attune  with  the  feelings,  so  all  nature  goads  them  on,  and 
the  quarrel  extends  from  the  line  fence  to  the  straying  cat- 
tle and  the  use  of  the  lane. 

There  are  many  warm,  sandy  fields  on  Long  or  Karle's 
Neck,  often  divided  by  hedges  that  have  grown  unkept 
these  many  years.  Clumps  of  sassafras  and  a  variety  of 
other  trees,  have  sprung  up  in  these  abandoned  places,  and 
give  them  a  peculiarly  pleasant  character.  The  yellow 
and  the  pitch  pines,  have  lain  a  carpet  of  needles,  and  the 
paths  that  wind  over  it,  are  often  dry  and  attractive  in 
Winter. 

The  Indians  once  lived  on  the  dunes,  for  their  imple- 
ments are  scattered  about,  and  you  find  the  arrow-heads 
and  hammer-stones  where  they  left  them.  There  is  a  cer- 
tain charm  in  picking  a  flint  from  the  sand,  and  knowing 
that  the  last  human  hand  that  held  it  before  your  own,  was 
that  of  a  wandering  Indian. 

Winter  ought  to  be  warmer  to  those  who  have  built 
their  houses  in  these  sandy  situations.  The  low  persimmon 
trees,  the  pines,  the  open  woods,  and  here  and  there  the 
barren  spots  that  are  always  dry,  seem  to  coax  Winter  not 
to  be  too  severe,  and  are  ever  beckoning  to  Spring.  Some 
of  the  persimmon  trees  retain  their  dried  calyxes,  and  they 
serve  to  show  all  Winter  the  fruitfulness  of  the  tree,  as 
shavings  tell  of  the  carpenter's  industry. 

Many  a  happy  day  has  been  spent  wandering  on  the 
Neck,  the  rabbits  occasionally  skipping  about  over  the 
clumps  Q{  Hudsonia,  or  poverty-grass,  as  it  is  called  on 


The    Turnpike  Road.  127 

Cape  Cod.  It  is  amusing  to  watch  a  little  dog  pursuing 
"  Molly,"  she  outstrips  him  quite  easily,  and  he  is  so  earnest 
that  he  will  run  quite  upon  you  before  he  is  aware,  and 
then  retires  abashed.  All  his  energy  is  centered  in  his 
sense  of  smell,  on  such  occasions.  You  can  see  that  he 
sees  nothing,  only  smells  his  way  along  the  trail,  and  bays. 
The  voice  of  a  dog  after  a  rabbit. 

On  these  dry  dunes,  mid  the  cedars,  the  pines  and  the 
Hudsonia,  the  sunny  days  seem  one  long  song;  there  is  a 
cadence  rising  from  the  earth,  and  the  heat  dances  in  a 
shimmering  light  along  the  warming  ground.  A  sad  un- 
speakable joy,  a  tingling  of  the  nerves,  an  awful  sense  of 
the  unknown,  settles  calmly  but  profoundly  down. 


REFLECTIONS. 


THERE  is  no  jesting  in  nature ;  she  may  seem  glad  or 
sad,  but  she  is  earnest.  A  trifling  man  in  the  field 
cannot  fool  the  crickets;  and  yet  there  is  much 
misrepresentation  in  nature.  I  see  the  hickory  trees  turn 
yellow  and  brown  in  Autumn ;  they  would  have  me  believe 
that  they  didn't  bear  any  fruit  this  year.  God's  creatures 
often  appear  to  one  another  what  they  are  not — they  are 
tricky.  Harmless  snakes  mimic  poisonous  ones,  the  sem- 
blance of  many  moth  to  yellow  leaves  is  striking ;  while 
spiders  inhabit  white  flowers,  and  yellow  spiders  occur  on 
yellow  ones.  Thus  they  escape  their  enemies,  or  prove  the 
hidden  enemies  of  others.  The  operations  of  nature  are 
akin  to  those  of  Wall  Street.  When  we  walk  in  the  woods 
we  cannot  be  sure  of  what  we  see,  so  much  is  done  for 
appearance  sake  alone,  the  truth  is  hidden  mid  a  pageant 
of  bright  petals.  Circe  is  ever  abroad,  and  the  milk-weeds 
lure  flies  and  bees  and  hold  them  captive  till  they  die. 

Any  action  that  is  possible  is  permissible  in  nature ;  she 
even  tolerates  murder.  Let  those  who  can,  do,  is  the 
motto  in  the  fields.  The  crimes  that  a  lone  man  may 
commit  in  the  woods,  or  on  the  sea  shore  know  no  law, 


Reflections.  129 

and  even  seem  without  the  pale  of  the  conscience.  If  he 
crushes  a  snail,  or  barks  a  tree  nature  does  not  revenge 
herself. 

Yet  the  ants  have  a  standard  of  justice  among  them- 
selves, that  is  a  conscience  as  far  as  their  community  and 
species  go.  Also  there  is  a  law  among  crows,  they  do 
not  destroy  each  other's  nests.  Our  own  justice  hardly 
steps  outside  of  human  affairs,  but  we  owe  something  to 
animals.  The  cow  in  the  field  appreciates  kindness,  and 
we  should  strive  to  please  the  more  helpless  creatures,  as 
well  as  our  friend  and  our  kindred. 

Perhaps  the  chief  value  of  going  afield,  is  that  we  are 
judged  by  a  true  standard — a  dollar  isn't  worth  a  cent 
there.  Death  is  a  great  leveller  it  is  said,  and  so  is  nature's 
influence.  In  the  city  a  man  is  surrounded  by  artificial 
conditions  and  has  the  help  of  his  fellows,  but  in  the  open 
country  he  comes  more  to  the  realization  of  himself.  A 
lone  journey  in  the  meadows  or  a  day  spent  silently  in 
the  woods,  is  sobering,  and  many  suffer  considerably  when 
thus  imprisoned  with  themselves.  They  cannot  find  any- 
thing of  interest  in  the  meadows,  they  complain  of  quiet 
in  the  midst  of  warfare,  and  are  generally  fretful. 

A  man  who  concerns  himself  principally  with  the  arti- 
ficial, and  who  thinks  that  the  world  is  for  stirring  busi- 
ness alone,  misses  entirely  that  divine  halo  that  rests  about 
much  in  nature.  To  him  all  things  are  certain.  He  can 
have  a  particular  tree  cut  down  or  an  ox  killed  at  com- 
mand, and  he  is  ever  busy  spinning  a  web  of  affairs.  You 
see  him  hurrying  across  the  street  with  rapid  strides,  for 
hasn't  the  Valley  railroad  declared  a  dividend!  Such 


130  Reflections. 

things  must  be,  but  they  are  not  the  safest  springs  of 
pleasure.  We  must  not  put  by  entirely  the  chippy  singing 
in  the  apple  tree,  or  the  white  clouds,  for  nature  declares 
a  dividend  every  hour — the  dew-drops  always  pay  par  to 
the  summer  leaves. 

If  we  could  constantly  bear  in  mind  many  of  our  ex- 
periences, most  of  us  would  be  quite  content  to  remain  in 
some  sequestered  nook  for  the  length  of  our  days,  but  the 
freshness  of  the  smart  wears  off — we  forget,  and  are  burned 
again. 

Those  who  are  unconsolably  miserable,  and  feel  that 
they  have  all  of  the  ills,  should  inspect  the  lilies  of  the  field. 
There  is  hardly  a  perfect  one  among  them,  and  no  doubt 
they  would  often  be  glad  to  spin  and  reap,  if  they  might 
thereby  forget  the  gnawing  caterpillars  that  devour  their 
leaves.  There  should  be  many  doctors  among  the  plants. 
I  meet  with  ailing  individuals  that  would  gladly  consult 
specialists  on  stamens  and  pistils. 

We  sometimes  get  a  wider  view  of  our  homes  by  going 
afield.  Like  Lynceus  we  see  well  at  a  distance.  The 
chief  value  of  an  excursion  is  often  the  last  step  across  the 
threshold.  We  walk  twenty  miles  in  order  to  get  acquaint- 
ed with  our  family  cat.  We  walk  and  walk,  and  think  we 
are  going  to  discover  something  of  interest;  we  go  a  long 
way  from  home  and  find  ourselves  finally  in  some  man's 
back  yard,  where  he  is  already  at  home.  Stanley  in  all  his 
explorations  always  found  some  one  at  home.  The  black 
men  fed  him  with  vegetables  from  their  kitchen  gardens. 

Our  enjoyment  of  a  place  is  often  proportioned  to  the 
effort  we  have  made  to  get  there.  The  further  it  is  away 


Reflections.  131 

and  the  longer  the  tramp,  the  sharper  our  eyes  become, 
and  vivid  is  the  mental  picture  we  carry  away.  One  of 
the  chief  advantages  in  visiting  different  meadows  and  pieces 
of  woodland,  is,  that  it  whets  our  perception,  we  are  more  on 
the  look  out.  But  probably  there  isn't  a  ten  acre  wood- 
lot  even  near  home,  that  has  been  thoroughly  explored. 
If  you  think  there  is,  go  through  it  again,  and  see  if  there 
isn't  a  nut  tree,  that  you  have  before  passed  by  without 
discovery. 

It  is  often  well  to  select  some  circumscribed  piece  of 
mother  earth,  and  watch  it  particularly  throughout  the 
year;  comparing  it  with  the  other  fields  to  which  occa- 
sional journeys  are  made.  The  rhythm  of  the  warmer 
months  is  broken  by  scattering  our  observation  too  wide. 
There  is  a  cadence  of  the  year ;  one  continuous  song 
changing  gradually  and  almost  imperceptibly,  and  of 
which  each  musical  creature  sings  in  turn  his  part.  The 
first  outburst  of  melody  of  the  song-sparrow,  the  black 
birds  in  the  swamp,  the  crickets,  the  katy-dids,  the  z-ing 
of  the  harvest  flies,  and  the  late  fall  notes  of  the  birds 
going  southward ;  these  and  many  more,  all  come  as  signs 
of  the  seasons,  and  mark  for  each  patch  of  mother  earth, 
the  progress  of  the  year.  They  make  a  beautiful  and 
pathetic  march,  and  are  best  seen  and  most  forcibly  im- 
pressed, by  looking  steadily  at  the  same  acres.  If  we  stand 
with  open  eyes,  there  is  no  pageant  so  varied  as  the  march 
of  the  warmer  days.  But  the  rapid  change  that  charac- 
terizes Summer  is  gone  in  Winter.  There  may  be  snow  or 
there  may  be  none,  but  we  have  generally  to  look  close  to 
note  that  a  few  more  dead  leaves  have  blown  off  an  oak 


132  Reflections. 

on  the  hill-side,  or  that  the  blackhaw  berries  are  a  little 
more  shrivelled  than  they  were  a  month  ago.  When  the 
ban  of  Boreas  is  o'er  the  land,  and  the  leaves  huddle  to- 
gether in  the  depressions  in  the  woods,  as  if  they  would 
keep  one  another  warm,  and  the  snow  lies  on  the  earth, 
then  a  view  of  one  field,  of  one  hill-side,  is  so  similar  to  the 
view  a  month  hence,  that  one  falls  back  on  the  calendar, 
for  the  want  of  any  change  betokening  the  march  of  time 
out  of  doors. 

Nature  does  indeed  will  us  strange  fortunes,  but  gen- 
erally she  is  tolerably  kind,  and  if  we  do  not  try  to  visit 
the  North  Pole,  or  spend  a  Summer  in  the  Sahara,  we 
may  live  along  without  any  marked  break  in  our  mutual, 
friendly  relations.  We  may  go  musing  calmly  in  the 
meadows,  in  the  woodland,  and  along  the  country  lanes, 
and  hark  to  those  inward  murmurings  of  fancy  that  cause 
a  strange  array  of  natural  and  human  transactions,  to  move 
in  turn  over  old  Staten  Island,  that  seems  to  sleep  so 
peacefully  to-day  beneath  the  autumn  sun.  Yet  no  doubt 
the  present  is  quite  as  unquiet  and  wrangling  as  many  a 
bygone  year,  but  over  the  past  there  always  rests  a  halo, 
and  time,  like  a  kind  critic,  idealizes  for  us  the  jumbled 
maze,  and  only  gives  forth  a  poetic  tincture  of  the  whole. 

The  patroons  and  their  Bouwries,  the  Peach  war,  the 
British  troops  quartered  on  the  Island,  and  the  domestic 
scenes  in  the  Dutch  and  Huguenot  families,  wear  to  us  a 
garment  of  quiet  and  pleasing  interest,  though  its  seams 
chafed  harshly  enough,  many  of  those  who  wore  it  of  old. 


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